Sammy, I Can't See!
by sweetysmart0505
Summary: Dean has gone blind. Now he must battle for his sight and his sanity. Blind!Dean.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: Everything belongs to their respective owners; Eric Kripke, the CW/WB._

**A/N**: It's been about 7 months since I've been able to write anything. This particular story -- based on a drabble I wrote called "I was blind, I still don't see" -- has been in the works for about a year and half. Finally finished it. And it's 9x longer than I wanted! It's very detailed and I hope you'll all bear with me through all the chapters! Thanks so much!

* * *

**Sammy, I can't see!  
Chapter 1**

"What do you mean? Dean?"

"Sammy? I... I can't see. I'm blind. I... can't see! Sammy!"

"Dean, calm down. Shh, calm down. It's okay. We'll figure this out, I promise. Dean, shh." Sam gently disentangled Dean's strong grip from his hair, where it had quickly become entwined and definitely tore a few strands out. "Dean, we need to get out of here. The thing may come back," Sam whispered as calmly, yet urgently, as possible.

"Sammy, I can't see!"

"I know, I know. I'll help you. But we need to get out of here first. Come on. Hold on to me," Sam whispered in what he hoped was a comforting tone, given the current situation. His own heart rate was beating rather fast, having increased when he'd found a very frightened Dean on the floor after they'd become separated. Now, he'd lost his iron rod, flamethrower, and his lighter, Dean didn't look like he had his either, so there was extra urgency to leave and regroup. But first he needed to get Dean out.

But Dean wasn't moving. He seemed frozen in place. Sam tugged on Dean's arms, finally resorting to slowly curling his arm around Dean's waist to prod him forward. "Dean come on. We need to leave. We'll get your sight back. You'll see." Dean breathing increased. "Dean please!" The harsher tone jerked Dean out of his reverie and he stumbled forward, Sam only just managing to hold him up. And with a strong guiding arm and little more encouragement, Sam had Dean moving at a reasonable rate.

It was Sam's strong focus on his surroundings that had him momentarily forgetting what Dean had exclaimed to him. So when Dean's foot caught on the railing of a stairwell that had rotted and fallen over, he jerked his body heavily into Sam's, throwing them momentarily off balance while Sam scrambled to hold them both up. Yet Dean's flailing arms caught Sam's in a tangle and they both stumbled into a nearby wall, Sam hitting his head and instantly stars danced in his vision. Dean collapsed against him and, on reflex, let out a little whine he would later deny.

"Jesus!" Sam groaned, only inches from Dean's ear, and Dean visibly flinched, sorry for what he'd caused. At once Sam regretted it but didn't have long to dwell on it when he heard a faint plunk to his left. Sam immediately stilled. But apparently Dean didn't hear it and continued to rustle around, struggling to get off his brother's lap. Sam held Dean's shaky frame in place, finally resorting to placing a hand softly over Dean's mouth. Dean flinched again, but, on instinct, fell silent.

The house reflected their silence back on them. Nothing stirred, and Sam was beginning to wonder whether he'd been imagining things, when suddenly a flashlight beam fell only feet from where Sam and Dean lay interlocked. On impulse, Sam tightened his grip on Dean, willing the beam of light to move away. Click, click. They were foot steps. Sam held his breath. Dean twitched, struggling to get his shaking under control. He'd heard them too. And with their highly trained hunter hearing, they knew she was getting close.

Finally the source of the light came around the corner. A silver flashlight, Dean's, held by a pale, petite hand, leading up to the silhouette of a small woman. Yet that was all they could see in the pitch black of the room. The beam of light travelled up the worn stairway, dust particles glittering. Sam watched it's progress, shivering even under Dean's body warm and waiting for the inevitable, when the light ray would come back down and land on it's targets.

Suddenly, a scrape was heard to the left and the beam whirled around to search it out, bouncing quickly along the wall, yet finding nothing. And the footsteps started up again. Dean's silver flashlight led the pale hand away and finally out of the room, and the room fell to darkness once more.

It seemed too soon to move, yet Sam felt a small exhale of air on his hand from Dean and remembered how urgently they needed to leave. His body was tense and ready lest she come back. However, quickly and quietly Sam released Dean's mouth and nudged him forward. Slowly, painfully slow, Dean got up, Sam not far behind. And, with the guiding arm back around Dean's waist and the other stretched straight outward, Sam managed to guide them out of this particularly dark room, in the opposite direction of the treacherous flashlight and its new owner.

"I gotcha," Sam mumbled encouragingly when Dean wavered on a particularly wobbly floor board. Finally, they were nearing the exit. Just one more obstacle. A fallen section of roof and room where a bed now lay, broken in half on it's side, bits of bedding and ceiling collected around it, almost entirely blocking the doorway.

Dean had started trembling when Sam had stopped, worried that something had happened, something he couldn't see. Then Sam started moving once more, bringing Dean to the thinnest section of wreckage, and, careful not to knock anything over that would alert their foe, manoeuvred Dean through it, first by turning Dean sideways and nudging the back of his brother's knee in a clear signal to lift it up. He did so. Yet even with a foot of ground clearance, Dean still managed to tap the blockade he was apparently trying to get over. His leg got higher, the toe of his boot scraping along the blockage, attempting to find the top of it, yet starting to fear he never would. Finally though, his boot met no resistance and, tumbling forward only a little, Dean managed to get his first leg over. Standing on tippy toes, Dean's other leg followed suit.

Yet the top half of his body wasn't following. It was still stuck on the other side of the barrier, where Dean only just realized that he had a tight grip on Sam's pale blue button up shirt. Suddenly, an irrational fear set in as he thought of letting go of Sam! He couldn't. He wouldn't. He-

But Dean's hand moved toward himself, as did the body it was attached to. Sam stealthily climbed over the obstruction and was back within range of Dean. Dean teetered on his heels slightly as he realized how close Sam was, almost knocking him over. And before he had even registered they were gone, Sam had replaced his hands on Dean's body and was once again shuffling them both forward.

Sam moved with practised grace, even while guiding his brother's shuffling gait along. He reached for the door, praying that it wouldn't screech and reveal their position. Of course they couldn't get their way as the old wooden door let loose a whining howl. And the sound was intensified when added to the sudden gust of wind that shoved the door inward and right into Dean's shoulder. He bumped into Sam, crying out in pain.

"Come on Dean. Not much further," Sam said, only inches from Dean's ear. And they moved out into the storm-filled night. There was no doubt that the flashlight wielder would have heard the door plus the wind, so, with no sense of stealth, Sam had them moving at a three-legged race pace, tripping down the stair on their way. No moon lit the night. Sam ran on instinct. Car to the left, 100 yards. Pot hole that Dean tripped in earlier, 10 feel in front of car. Keys in Dean's pocket. Move now, before she comes back!

Over and over again, he muttered to himself, willing his legs to keep going, willing Dean to keep going, willing the freakin' witch not to see her two quarries scrambling across her yard!

Everything was a blur. He had no idea how they made it 100 yards so fast, or how Dean's keys managed to get into his hands when he didn't remember grabbing them. Soon enough, they were at the car.

"Door Dean." But Sam didn't wait for Dean to respond as he yanked open the passenger side door with a shrill squeal and navigated Dean into the car. Run around the front, slide in the driver's side, ignition forced on, hit gas, go.

It was only a glimpse of dark, blood red silk whipping in the wind before the witch and her flashlight were behind a line of trees and out of sight.

...

First thought? Safety. Second thought. Blind? Sam nearly swerved off the road when that word pounded into his skull. Dean has said blind. That's what he'd said. That word. It was clear. No other meaning. Blind. Irrationality kicked in. Maybe he's just wounded. It was terribly dark in there after all. Maybe it'd wear off. Maybe, he's not blind. Not blind. Not blind. Blind. Blind.

Upon entering the car, Dean hadn't moved, hadn't made a sound. Were it not for harsh, rattled breaths, Sam would hardly know he was there. He glanced over. Dean sat hunched in the passenger seat, head bent low, shrouded in shadows. His right hand was gripping his left, which was clinched into a fist... the fist that had been clenching Sam's shirt then had been forcefully torn away.

Thinking back now, Sam remembered a flash of pain cross Dean's face when that contact had been lost, but he'd been so focused on getting out that he hadn't had time to register the look. Now, Sam could see Dean's shoulders heaving, possibly in an effort to calm his breathing. And he was shaking. Maybe from the cold... or the fear. Dean was shaking. And it was making Sam's chest hurt. He focused back on the road.

Dean could barely think at all. Some how, they had made it out of that place alive. Though not all together safe. He couldn't see Sam. He couldn't see the new rain as it splattered on the windshield, or the wipers working their way back and forth. No bright yellow beams lighting the road, no dashboard in front of him. He couldn't see his own shaking hands. Or his own brother. There was nothing. He couldn't figure out why it didn't hurt more, losing his sight. All he felt was... empty. Numb.

The cab was silent. An eternity later, they pulled into the Red Spot Motel. Room 12 was theirs. With no warning, Sam was hauling Dean out of the car and into their room. He was then back outside, back out to the Impala's trunk where he pulled out every witch-proof weapon, spell or ward they owned. Yet when he came back in, Dean hadn't moved from where he'd been left, only two feet from the open doorway.

"Come on Dean."

"No!" Dean shrieked. He wouldn't admit it later, but his voice cracked in desperation.

"Dean, wha-"

"No! Just leave. Go. Get out of here!"

"What are-"

"Leave! I know you want to! Just leave! You'll be better off without me." Dean chocked on the last word.

And there it was. The anger. The pain.

"Dean," Sam sighed out. He watched as Dean squeezed his eyes shut, attempting to block out the world. Sam said no more, only wrapped his arms around Dean's shoulder's and guided him to the bed closest to the door. Dean didn't protest. He was too tired. Knees bumping into the edge of the bed, Dean turned around and sunk into the mattress, vaguely wishing it would engulf him and never let him out.

Sam stood over his brother briefly, hand cupping the side of Dean's head. His wet-with-rain thumb lightly rubbed Dean's temple before his finger's swept along Dean's cheeks, finally letting go. Dean's head followed the touch as far as it could, then the cold flesh disappeared. And he sat once more, numbed.

Sure, he didn't really want Sam to leave. He didn't want to be left alone. But this wasn't about him. This was about Sam. Dean couldn't watch out for him anymore. Couldn't protect him. Couldn't help him. Dean couldn't hunt. Couldn't fight. Couldn't even research. He was useless, a liability. And Sam didn't need him, a hindrance, around.

"Easy Dean. Easy." Sam's hand was back. Both of them were. Each hand, this time dry, cupped a side of Dean's face, the thumbs moving smoothly over Dean's freckled cheeks. That's when Dean realized he was crying, shoulders heaving, sobbing. He wailed in anguish. He hadn't even felt the tears come. They hadn't prickled his eyes. They hadn't made his sight go blurry. He didn't even feel the tickle as the rolled down his mildly wet cheeks. It hadn't taken long before he'd fully broken down in front of Sam.

Yet Sam hadn't run. He was kneeling in front of Dean, hands not leaving his face, whispering incomprehensible words. Not leaving his handicap brother. Not leaving.

Dean sobbed harder. It wouldn't stop. He couldn't stem the flow of tears or pain. He let it all out. Let it all show. Preying Sam wouldn't suddenly come to his senses... and leave.

And if Dean wasn't so emotional, he would have realized how much this wasn't like him. Winchesters didn't cry. Dean didn't cry. His pride wouldn't allow it. But he was emotionally frayed, nerve-endings electrified, fear and angish enveloped him. Sue him for a few tears.

It was a good 5 minutes before Sam saw the first signs of receding. Dean began hiccoughing, unable to force anymore sobs out. And even with numb toes and sore arms, Sam didn't move. Over and over he whispered, "It's okay, it'll be okay. I've got you Dean." And at some point Dean's hand had reattached to the front of Sam's shirt, his fingers entangling in the buttons.

"I've got you. Easy."

Dean drew in a long breath and haltingly released it.

"It's okay."

"No," Dean choked out. "Sammy, I can't see." It was barely audible.

Sam's heart rate sped up. He'd been hoping it had worn off by now. Or receded. Or anything. Dean released a small, unintentional whimper.

"Let's take a look." Working around Dean's arm, Sam tilted his brother's chin up and, for the first time, Sam saw his face unshadowed. His face was flush from crying, and glistened with smeared tears. Yet... "No scarring. Can you see anything at all?"

Dean shook his head and whimpered again, though he tried to stifle it with a small cough.

"No orbs? No gray?"

Another head shake. "Sammy-"

"Shh. You'll be okay, Dean," Sam said, hearing the anguish in his brother's broken voice.

Dean nodded numbly. Sam's finger's gently brushed Dean's eyelashes. Dean's eyes flinched. At least that meant he could feel it. His fingers moved softly over Dean's eye lids, over his tears ducts, over the freckled bridge of his nose, stroking up as far as Dean's eyebrows, looking for a reaction of any kind. Dean's eyes fluttered in all the right places. However, even at such close proximity, Dean's green irises refused to follow his movements. They stared dead ahead without so much as a glance at anything at all.

Through the prodding, Dean sat there, helpless, his right hand still tightly clutching Sam's shirt, the other splayed on his lap.

"Dean, I don't-"

"I'm blind." So blunt, it hurt. Yet, Dean had no more tears to cry.

Sam sighed deeply, then nodded before mentally slapping himself. Dean couldn't see that. Yet he chose not to correct himself. Any noise of confirmation would just hurt too much. The words were already a knife to his heart.

"Do you remember anything?" Sam finally asked softly.

"I-" Dean's face screwed up as he struggled to remember through the haze that was his memory. He'd woken up on a hard floor, everything completely black, then Sam was there. Before that?

_Flashback ..._

"A what?"

"Probably a witch," Sam answered, sitting in front of his laptop in a roadside diner in Willow, Nevada. "There's been four deaths in town. They all died- men by the way. They all died completely normal deaths... all in the same half mile radius."

"And that means witch because..." Dean stabbed into his half eaten sausage.

"Because," Sam drawled, "That half mile radius was said to once be home to a coven of witches whom aggravated the town so bad that the townspeople, in true Salem style, burned the cluster of homes down and captured and burned any that tried to escape. Apparently there had been deaths all over town and when the coven supposedly all died the killings stopped."

"You think they were real witches?"

"There's only a few reports from back then, all saying the same thing: people dropping dead all over the place from fairly safe things like people tripping and falling on their crop tools, walking into metal hooks hanging on walls in the stables, and one person apparently wandered into an open field and tripped into a wide open hole that was to be turned into a water well, breaking his neck on the way down."

"They didn't have glasses back then, d-"

"Dean!"

"Just saying. All right. Worth checking out. Where do we start?"

"Well, apparently, when the coven's home was burnt, only one building was left standing, half burnt and uninhabitable."

Dean grinned. "All right, we'll go tonight."

_... End flashback_

That was some 18 hours ago. All the rest was really fuzzy. "I... fell?" Dean hesitated.

"You fell?"

"I- I can't really- I mean- I- S- Sam?!"

"Shh, Dean. Calm down. It's okay. You don't have to remember right now."

"But what if it doesn't come back?" Dean whispered in full panic.

Unfortunately Sam stayed silent for a half second too long before Dean started hyperventilating.

"Easy Dean. Easy! It's okay. I know you're scared. I am too. It'll be okay. Just breathe, Dean. Breathe."

Over and over again, Sam repeated that, all the while keeping a gentle hand on Dean's back, rubbing small circles in it, just like Dean used to do to with Sam.. After what seemed like forever, Dean took a long, stuttering breath and looked up, directing his face toward Sam's comforting voice. Dean held desperately onto what Sam had been saying, willing himself to believe that it was true. Truth was, Dean couldn't _see_ much hope.

"We'll get it back," Sam said decisively, and Dean nodded despite his thoughts. He calmed down.

Silent filled the room. Neither knew what to say. Dean just held onto Sam's presence, and his shirt, for dear life, while Sam brought his hands to Dean's neck and just held him, letting his heart beat fall into sync with the beating pulse beneath his palms.

Completely exhausted, Dean's sore eyelids began to droop inadvertently. And, without words, Sam began to undress Dean. His boots were removed and his socks. Next was his plaid red button up.

"Sammy, I-" Dean began, looking terrified.

"Dean, I promise we'll figure this out. But we can't do it tonight."

And, without another word on the matter, bed sheets were pulled back and Dean was dropped into bed, feeling quite like a newborn again without his sight. He barely remembered that his head was supposed to go on the pillow, for soon enough the white pillow was gripped in Dean's one hand like a child would hold a blanket. However, his other hand refused to leave Sam's pale blue shirt. He couldn't lose that too. He'd lost his sight. He couldn't lose his precious brother too. It hurt way too much not being able to see Sam's face, but also not to feel his brother... no, he couldn't. Sam didn't object.

Sam knelt right by Dean's head, one hand resting gently by Dean's forehead while his fingers absently caressed his brother's brow. Newly turned, scared, lonely, and tired, soon Dean was asleep. But the blindness didn't stop the nightmares.

Hell came just as vivid as before. He could still feel the heat, hear the screams, smell the filth, taste the sulphur and see the red blood. Red. Everywhere. That's all he saw was red. Red blood. Red eyes. Red silk. Red, flowing silk, and a whispered incantation. The heat was too much and Dean shot up in bed, screaming, "Sam!" And the red faded to black.

**To be continued...**

* * *

**A/N:** I'm going to post chapters every couple days if there's enough enthusiasm because it's all written out. If you find any errors in plot, please let me know! Thanks for reading! Please review as well!


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: Everything belongs to their respective owners; Eric Kripke, the CW/WB._

**A/N**: Thanks for the reviews on the last chapter. I understand these chapters are rather long, but please skim it and tell me what you think!

* * *

_Last chapter:_

_Sam knelt right by Dean's head, one hand resting gently by Dean's forehead while his fingers absently caressed his brother's brow. Newly turned, scared, lonely, and tired, soon Dean was asleep. But the blindness didn't stop the nightmares._

_Hell came just as vivid as before. He could still feel the heat, hear the screams, smell the filth, taste the sulphur and see the red blood. Red. Everywhere. That's all he saw was red. Red blood. Red eyes. Red silk. Red, flowing silk, and a whispered incantation. The heat was too much and Dean shot up in bed, screaming, "Sam!" And the red faded to black._

**Sammy, I can't see!  
Chapter 2**

"Dean! Hey calm down! It's okay. You're safe. It was just a dream." Sam yelped when suddenly Dean grabbed at his hair and pulled it. He whimpered slightly and Dean cringed, pulling his hand, and a few loose hairs, back quickly.

"Sammy..."

"It's okay Dean. Here." Sam's warm hands grabbed Dean's and pulled them forward. And, like a baby after milk, Dean latched onto Sam's shirt this time.

"It's not just a dream, is it?" Dean said haltingly. "It's not just _really _dark in here?"

Sam sighed and that was all the confirmation Dean needed.

"It was the witch," Dean muttered.

"What?"

"The witch. She did this to me."

Sam's eyes widened slightly before he shifted Dean a bit on the bed and finally settled down beside his brother.

"What do you remember?"

"She-" Dean took a deep breath. Just stating facts... "She was beautiful... Yet grotesque. I don't remember too much. Just her flaming red hair. And her red silk dress. It seemed to writhe on its own accord, even though there was no wind in the house. And her face. It was scarred. Just like the half of her home, it was half burnt."

"_Her _home?"

"Yeah. Hers. She didn't say it. But I could feel it, like she was angry that yet another person was tainting it." Sam nodded, though Dean didn't see it. "Then she- She whispered the incantation at me, repeating it through twice. She was holding me by my throat against the wall like I weighted absolutely nothing. Then, when she finished chanting... I passed out... And woke up-"

"Yeah."

"You believe me?"

"Of course I do. Why wouldn't I?"

Dean softly sniffled. "I just feel like I'm going crazy. I just... don't know what to do."

"We'll fix this. Now that we know for sure it's a witch, and we might even be able to look up who it is, we'll find her, kill her, and get your sight back."

"Just like that?" Dean asked shakily.

"Just like that."

It was silent for a moment before Dean asked, "Now what?"

"I've been doing research. This witch is probably quite powerful considering her age." Dean nodded, agreeing. "I've been looking for alternate ways to kill her. Unfortunately, most say fire."

"She won't like that," Dean muttered. Sam smiled. For a brief moment, Dean sounded like Dean. It sounded right.

"I've also been connecting the deaths." Dean raised his eyebrows. "You were a big clue. I guessed that this was all the witch's doing, and I thought about all the deaths. They all died acting like they were blind. Falling into wide open holes, walking right into traffic, you know. The shooting was an odd one. Maybe that one isn't connected." Sam stopped talking, thinking what he may have missed to connect that death. But a shooting wasn't really something you walk into blindly... well, there goes that logic. "Accidental killing. The guy who was shot walked "blindly" into the shooting."

"And the guy who shot him happened to be there, with a gun, to shoot that exact guy?" Dean asked, sounding sceptical.

"Yeah, all right, a little odd."

"And the accidental drowning?"

"All right, all right. I get it. Maybe they aren't all connected." Sam went back to thinking.

Dean tentatively asked, "Why do you think they were all blind?"

Sam blinked, thinking about the question before answering, "Dunno. Just makes sense. And it would never show up on their autopsies." Dean looked over at Sam, or where he believed Sam to be, looking surprised. "Well, looking at you, I would never have guessed you were blind. Besides the fact that you never really focus you eyes on anything." Sam kept his voice soft, hoping to not aggravate Dean's already fried nerves.

Yet, Dean just looked more surprised. "I... I don't look... blind?"

Sam shook his head. Then, yet again, mentally slapped himself. "No," he corrected.

Dean trembled slightly at the thought. He'd had images running through his mind. His eyes looking scarred, white, maybe dead. But nothing? That was hard to accept. He sure didn't feel normal. Not at all. He felt like a freak. Ugly, disfigured. Unnatural. Not Dean. For the first time, Dean's eyes actually stung with apparent tears, that he couldn't see, in his eyes. He attempted to reign himself in. Yet one lone tear escaped before the tears subsided. It rolled down his cheek, cooling his face. It rolled off his chin, dropping onto his bare skin where his wife-beater didn't cover. He didn't even have the strength to wipe it away.

Though it served as a reminder that, even with Sam beside him, he'd still managed to maintain a grip on Sam's shirt. Dean cringed, realizing how childish he must seem and now, thanks to him, how wrinkled the shirt must be. He began to pull away, slowly uncurling his stiff digits. But before he could pull all the way off, Sam placed his hand over Dean's struggling one, stilling it's movements. And he held it quite firmly. And the message was clear. Dean loosened his grip but didn't let go.

"Now what?" Dean whispered.

"Kill the bitch," Sam said firmly.

"How?"

"I will-"

Immediately Dean fingers re-curled fearfully and tightened their hold. "You're not going alone. And I can't help you now that I'm-" Dean was tempted to say stupid, or even handicap. But it just felt wrong.

Sam heard it anyway and he flinched. "What can we do then? Bobby's not around. Nobody else is near enough that we can trust. If I don't go, other people will die. Including you, if pattern holds."

Dean wasn't a stranger to life or death situations. It was all part of the job, even blind. But the thought of Sam alone. With a crazy witch. Without him around. He wouldn't let Sam get hurt. He couldn't. He'd die first. He just couldn't. No!

"Dean, easy. Breathe dude, breathe." And Dean realized he was hyperventilating again. Jeez, he felt like a child, reacting so severely. Sam wasn't a kid. He could take care of himself. Yet... "You're not going alone. That's final." Dean muttered through breaths. "I'll go with you if-"

"No Dean. You said it yourself. You can't help. Look, I don't like it either, but you-"

"I swear to God Sam, you're not going alone! I'll stop you myself, and, even blind, I'll win."

Sam felt the anger and determination rolling off of Dean. His brother was going to hold to his word. There was no doubt about that. So there was no point in arguing now. Dean wouldn't change his mind. And besides, Sam didn't want Dean to hyperventilate again. Maybe after some food.

"Sam!"

"Fine. You're coming. We'll do it quickly. And I'm not taking my eyes off of you," Sam said hurriedly. Yet, even though he really had no intention of following through, Sam could almost feel what he was as the truth. Like, one way or another Dean was going to come. And when Dean groaned aloud then smiled, it only confirmed it. It seemed like Dean was coming with him. Perfect...

Dean had smiled because he knew he'd won. Whether Sam knew it or not, or even liked it, Dean was coming. No if's, and's, or but's. "What time's it now?"

"Almost sunrise," Sam replied, looking toward the window where the sun was already lighting the sky into a dull pink.

"Good."

Sam had to agree. They did prefer hunting at night. Less prying eyes around. But at least in the day Sam's single pair of eyes would have an easier time looking for the witch and watching Dean at the same time. Maybe he could convince Dean to stay in the car.... "All right, today. But we need something to eat first. Might as well get practising."

Dean gulped. He was nervous. Probably lingering feelings from before. Only amplified as he thought about the immediate future. Normal, everyday life. And everything that entailed now that he was incapacitated. What if he failed at it? What if Sam saw him struggling and gave up, not being able to take having such a retard for a brother? What if Sam left? What if-

"Dean!"

"Wha-"

"I said, "Let's get a move on.""

Right. Calm down. Just over reacting. It's only breakfast. What could possibly go wrong?

Dean certainly had never been one to ask for help. He had his pride and his image to uphold. Sam knew this. After checking his Shaman sigils and hoodoo bags strewn around the room, Sam turned to see Dean struggling with his clean gray T-shirt. Right now, it was going on inside-out with his right arm going through the head, the left being trapped within. Sam chuckled softly to himself as Dean moaned in frustration. But he wasn't going to make this any harder on Dean then he had to. One quick pull had the shirt back off of Dean, his bare chest heaving from the struggle. Reversed and righted, Sam slid the shirt over Dean's head and let it drape over his shoulders while Dean slapped his brother's hands away with a non-committal grunt. Yet, soon enough, the shirt was on correctly.

And so it went. Sam grabbed another clean button-up of Dean's – his favourite solid maroon one, and one of the only clean ones left – briskly shook it our and draped it on Dean's shoulders as well. Dean said nothing, just silently accepted the help. Inside, he was grateful. He wasn't really sure how to do this by himself yet. Sure, he'd been doing it most of his life. But this was different. It was. Dean just didn't feel right. It was like... he was starting over in life. Only this time, Sam was taking care of him.

Both boys drew the line at boxers however. Dean would just have to go two days in a row. Before long, Dean was dressed satisfactorily and they were out the door, Sam with keys in hand.

It was a shaky start. Sam was hovering like a new mother – Congratulations, it's a blind man! - and he started with a reassuring arm around Dean's shoulders, yet that was quickly shrugged off when a passer-by noticeably slowed and Dean could almost feel his eyes on the two of them. Of course, it was apparent Dean couldn't walk on his own. So, they shifted around, Dean holding onto Sam, starting with his arm on Sam's bicep then gravitating instead to his shoulder. It took only one incident of Dean tripping over Sam's gangly legs and Dean's remark of, "Sasquatch," before they got in sync. It didn't take long for Dean to begin to notice subtle changes, even if they were only about his brother. With his hand on Sam's shoulder, Dean could feel when Sam slowed, so he did so accordingly. He felt when Sam tensed. It meant something was coming up. Dean wasn't sure exactly what, but he prepared. And more shifting from Sam and Dean could feel his brother opening the diner door.

It smelled exactly as it had yesterday morning. Fresh brewed coffee and old, plastic booths and table clothes. With a distinct change in the atmosphere. Dean had no doubt that the place was nearly empty. It was rather early in the morning. And the ones who were there were most likely out-of-towners just like them, hoping to get an early start on their travels. No doubt many of them were alone. That would account for why, when Dean stepped into the restaurant, it felt like every eye, no matter how few, were on him. Dean's neck tingled with feelings of being watched. He hadn't even thought to bring sunglasses. And why should he have? It wasn't like he could see the sun. He had no idea how bright it was – which it wasn't, with the sun peeking through the clouds and the last of the pink sky dulling. Yet, without the dark, plastic shades he felt exposed.

Sam quickly led them to the back of the diner, away from as many prying eyes as possible. Even still, Sam was forced to glare at one patron who was staring particularly hard over his coffee mug. The man blinked and turned away hastily. Sam and Dean sat two booths away from him.

"Good morning gentlemen." She sounded beautiful. Perky. And not the same waitress who served them yesterday.

"Where's Sheila?" Dean found himself asking.

The waitress sighed. "Didn't show up for work today. Probably not feeling well." Dean nodded. "Anything to drink?"

"Coffee, extra strong," Dean grunted.

"Black coffee. And for you?"

"Same," Sam replied. "We'll only need one menu."

There was a hesitant pause, then, "Sure, of course. I'll be right back then." Dean flinched when he realized she'd been holding out the menus. He hadn't even noticed.

"What do you want?" Sam asked, breaking into Dean's thoughts.

"Uh, usual." Dean sat with his arms on the table, fingers interlocked, feeling oddly empty without a menu. Not like he could read it. And not like he didn't already know what he wanted. But it was the principle of it. You go into a diner, you sit, you know what you want, you read the menu, you change your mind a dozen times, then you order your original. It's just the way things were. And this, it just felt wrong.

The waitress, in her clicky red shoes, came back and deposited two mugs on the table. "You ready?"

"Yeah. We'll just get two specials, side of bacon. Make one extra greasy."

Dean smiled despite himself. Trust Sam to know exactly what to say.

The waitress chuckled lightly. "I'll be right back with that." And their table fell silent. Dean wasn't sure exactly where his coffee had been placed. I could certainly smell it. Fresh, as it should be, this early in the morning. Tentatively, Dean stretched out a hand. It wasn't right in front of him.

Sam, however, could see this only ending badly if Dean was left to his own devices. So, he reached out for Dean's mug, bringing it close enough so that it brushed Dean's knuckled. After a tiny flinch as the warm ceramic met his hands, Dean's fingers curled around the mug, slipping their way through the handle for a better grip.

The coffee was hot. Dean could feel that much. As he brought it to his lips, he blew lightly over the rim, letting it rest lightly on his bottom lip briefly before the the cup was tipped and Dean took his first sip.

It was coffee. Black. It made Dean feel better. More normal, if not totally so. Although his tongue was already burning, he took another sip, letting it warm him. And as more and more liquid went down his throat, his mug slowly emptying, Dean began to relax. He had coffee. Breakfast was coming. Sam was safely in front of him. The world was bri- Well, no. Dark and scary and eggs...

The waitress returned quickly, two plates of sunny-side-up eggs. That, Dean could smell. And possibly a hint of hashbrowns. And... there it was. Dear, sweet, savoury bacon. And Dean's mouth began to water. The two plates were clinked down. And her and her brand-new-looking, clicky, red shoes walked away with a small, "Enjoy."

Breakfast was a slow affair. More times than Dean would ever admit, he would miss his plate entirely, his fork hitting plastic table cloth and Sam would huff with amusement. He'd then take pity on his big brother and usher Dean's hand and fork back to the plate. Soon, Dean decided that the plate could rest against his forearm, so he would always have a sense of where it was. Of course, his hand was wrapped firmly around his mug of coffee. After a near spill when Dean had let go and tried to retrieve it, Sam ordered the hand to stay put. So one hand around his coffee, plate brushing his forearm and breakfast slowly going down. Certainly the hardest part about it was finding the food on his plate, and actually getting any on his fork. If you've ever eaten a meal with your eyes closed, then you can partially guess what Dean was going through.

When he wasn't hitting the table, his wasn't hitting anything at all. At first it was simple enough. There was ample food on his plate to stab. But as breakfast progressed, there was less and less food to find. At points he was sure he was even pushing the food right over the edge of his plate and onto the table. That one was certainly the most embarrassing. When the waitress clicked her way over, she asked, "More coffee?" Then taking note of the mess around Dean's plate, she tentatively asked, "I could also get a tray with rims, if that would be easier." Dean ducked his head. He felt his face begin to burn, and, to his further embarrassment, tears prickled his eyes. This was worse than anything he'd ever had to endure. Sure, he'd been slapped by angry girls, kicked in the nads by a jealous jock – who Dean then kicked the crap out of. He'd even been hit on by a male high school coach in tenth grade... But this was just shear mortification, mostly because he couldn't defend himself against it. Every other time, he could fight against it. Fight whoever, or whatever, was against him. Here, there was no way to protect himself. It was agonizing. Because, surely, if he can't protect himself from the general public, how could he ever hope to protect Sam!

"Could he possibly just get another knife," said brother intervened. Dean's first one had fallen on the floor.

The waitress nodded and stepped away. She was back quickly, deftly placing the knife right on Dean's plate. He could feel it with his fork. It took Dean a few moments to get his face back under control. Mostly he had to be blink his tears away.

Even with his shoulders slumped, Sam could see Dean fighting the situation. He could guess this would be pretty hard on Dean, having to be taken care of, treated like a child constantly. Maybe he'd like a few moments alone... "Dean, grab your knife." Seemingly mindlessly, Dean did that. His hand slid out from his coffee mug's handle, he traced the rim of his plate and finally found the handle of his knife. Still, he didn't look up. "Just keep your hand on the knife and careful with the coffee. I need to take a leak." Dean nodded mutely. Sam slowly got up, taking in the scene before him before he was satisfied and set off for the washroom on the other side of the diner.

Dean heard Sam leave. He felt a little grateful that Sam would just give him a second without having his little brother's eyes burning holes into his skull. Whether Sam would admit it, Dean had felt it. Though a tendril of fear curled inside of him. What if Sam didn't come back? What if Sam got hurt and Dean wasn't there? A whole load of what if's. Yet it was only the bathroom – Yeah, in the town currently housing a witch, Dean chided himself.

He took a few swallows of air, enjoying the sharp prickle he got when he inhale a little bit of egg. It distracted him as he hacked. It didn't last long though. Then a voice interrupted him. "Hey man, could you pass the- whoa, someone needs a napkin. I got one over here, if you need it." Dean's shoulders hunched once more, his hands turning to fists around his cutlery, his teeth snapping together. "Or I could get you a bib." The voice was over his left shoulder. If he shifted just slightly, he'd be able to punch the guy in the face without stabbing his eyes with the points of the fork still clutched in his fist. "Or maybe a napkin to wipe it off your face." Maybe a fork in the face wouldn't so bad. He wouldn't even need to shift his gait as the man came around the table to stand beside him, looking down on him.

"Fuck off," Dean whispered, possibly a little desperately.

"Or I could hold your cup, so you can wash out your filthy mouth. Open up." The man chuckled.

In a childish display to protect what was his, Dean lunged for his coffee mug as the man also went for it. Yet he wasn't sure where it was anymore. His embarrassment and anger were clouding his mind. He misjudged the distance, his knuckles colliding with the handle. Yet, instead of a clatter of ceramic on plastic and the distinct sound of coffee spilling onto the floor, warm hands engulfed Dean's and held him and the coffee mug still. "Back off," came the dangerously soft hiss of Sam's voice.

"He doesn't understand anyway-"

"He's blind, not dumb. Now back off before I rip your stinking head off," Sam's voice got impossibly low. It was feral. Even Dean shuddered.

"I just assumed-"

"Don't."

The man argued no further and stalked off back to his booth. The one two booths away. The same man who'd stared at Dean on the way in.

Dean sat stalk-still, Sam's hands still wrapped around him.

"Dean," Sam tried softly.

"I'm fine," Dean replied curtly. So, he was mentally ill, was he? He pulled back against Sam's hands, but Sam wouldn't let go. He just stood, gripping them harder the more Dean pulled. "Sam."

"Dean."

Dean took a deep breath. His anger had been curbed as soon as Sam had arrived. Relief had washed over him. He mustered as much calm as he could. "I'm okay... Really."

It took a second as Sam analyzed Dean's face and posture. Finally he conceded Dean looked close to okay. He let his brother go. Dean didn't move for a moment. As the calm had set in, Dean realized how nice, how familiar, those hands had felt. It almost pained him to lose the contact. However, Dean took the message at face value – let me help - and Dean shifted his posture so he was facing Sam, where he had retaken his seat.

"We could leave."

Dean shook his head, smiling lightly. "I'm still hungry."

Sam chuckled lightly, and Dean felt his brother return the smile. He was certainly damn happy to have a brother like Sam.

Dean's fists relinquished their tight grasp on their quarry. He was surprised his silverware has survived the vicious attack. And his hands for that matter, which were sore with silverware indents and fingernail marks. He stretched his fingers to loosen the muscles. Then he began on breakfast once more. It wasn't as appetizing as it had been mere moments ago, but he really was hungry, and he was attempting to make the best of this stupid situation. How do they always stumble across the crazy humans! And Dean had no doubt that Sam was glaring at said crazy human. The man would probably have died had he dared look Sam in the eye and see the venom there.

With his knife and fork, Dean was finishing up the last of the breakfast - or what wasn't on the table, and he'd already wiped at his face with his napkin – and was washing it down with the fresh coffee that waitress had brought. Sam, with a quick, "Be right back," to Dean, got up to pay their bill. Dean nodded and went for his last piece of bacon, which he'd left specifically for last so he could savour that taste. He chewed it and tasted the fat along the one side and sighed in contentment.

He went to swallow. And his throat seized up, the food stuck halfway in the swallow. No bacon went down, no air came up. Not even enough to cough. His cutlery clatter to his empty plate.

Dean was terrified. Not only could he not see, now he couldn't breathe. After waiting dumbly for the bacon to move, Dean flailed briefly before his hands found his throat... the universal signal for, "Get over here now!"

**To be continued...**

* * *

**A/N:** Cliffie here! Of course, I am writing this story purely for myself. It includes all the elements I enjoy. It's just a bonus if you happen to agree with me. Please tell me if you do agree with me! Review, thanks!


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: Everything belongs to their respective owners; Eric Kripke, the CW/WB._

**A/N**: You guys are really surprising me with the interest. I'm so pleased many people enjoy the same things as I do. Thank-you everyone for the reviews on the last chapter!

* * *

_Last chapter:_

_Dean went to swallow. And his throat seized up, the food stuck halfway in the swallow. No bacon went down, no air came up. Not even enough to cough. His cutlery clatter to his empty plate._

_Dean was terrified. Not only could he not see, now he couldn't breathe. After waiting dumbly for the bacon to move, Dean flailed briefly before his hands found his throat... the universal signal for, "Get over here now!"_

**Sammy, I Can't See!**  
**Chapter 3**

Dean's eyes grew wide. He knew this was bad. Very bad! He couldn't see Sam. And Sam couldn't see him from the cash register. His fingers began desperately scratching at his throat. Anything to get the bacon out. To get the air in. To breathe. To live. He had to breathe, so he could protect Sam. He couldn't leave Sam alone again. And with all his might Dean screamed for Sam, even if only in his own head. The plea echoed against his skull.

Oddly, Sam could almost here the silent scream of, "Get over here now!" As instinct told him something was up. He dropped the card he'd been holding onto the counter, not even having paid yet, and turned the corner only to see Dean's elbows flailing violently. Nobody else noticed.

"Dean!" Avoiding a flying elbow, Sam grabbed Dean's shoulders and yanked him out of the booth. Dean's weight sent them both to the floor. But no matter. With Dean's tense back against his chest, Sam wrapped his strong arms around Dean, and, even choking, Dean relaxed slightly. Then with a strong thumb, Sam thrust upward just above Dean's navel. Dean leaned forward sharply and Sam's body followed, desperate to keep Dean against his rapidly beating heart, willing his brother's to keep beating.

Dean felt a cough working its way up his throat, pushing hard on the offending blockage. He was getting light-headed with lack of oxygen. His already black vision felt like it got darker. His heart pounded against his ribs, working the last of his oxygen through his system. Sam kept squeezing his stomach, over and over again.

Finally, an eternity and a half later the bacon bit was spewed from Dean's mouth, landing a clear 10 feet away. And Dean coughed like he had never coughed before, dragging precious air into his deprived lungs. Sam, hearing Dean's frantic gasps for air, felt his body go lax even if his arms didn't loosen their tight grip around Dean, his hands now splayed over Dean's chest. Dean's left hand still held his throat, yet the other was desperately clutching Sam's sleeve as his head lolled onto Sam's shoulder.

"Yeah, he's not dumb," the man from two booths away sneered. Dean clinched his eyes shut, trying to block out the repulsive voice.

Sam quickly produced his venom glare and the man raised his hands in surrender even with a loopy smile on his face. The guy promptly sauntered out of the diner. Sam's anger simmered down immediately with the absence of the man.

"Sam," Dean rasped out.

"Just breathe Dean. Just breathe." His grip began to loosen with the sound of Dean's voice. However, Dean continued to use him as a wall, leaning against him, too weak to move just yet.

"Should I call 9-1-1?" That's when Dean heard the scuffle of boots and rustle of jackets from really close by. Their little show had drawn quite a crowd, from the patrons to the waitress and even some of the cooking staff. And what had felt like an eternity under his no-oxygen restraint was really no more than 30 seconds. And the waitress, although she had had enough time to grab the phone, was in the midst of dialling when Dean started breathing again and never got a chance to finish the number.

"No, I've got him now," Sam responded, seeing no more of the waitress than her red shoes, with his own head leaning against Dean's.

"You sure?" she asked tentatively, as if she was afraid her loud voice would start off another attack.

Dean felt Sam nod against his head, his brother's breaths whistling over Dean's ear. "Come on Dean, let's go," Sam whispered so only they could hear.

" 'kay."

Sam had a bit of a struggle getting his body out from under Dean's, yet he abruptly glared off the first man who offered to help. He was a little on edge. They couldn't blame him. He just wanted Dean safe and out of here.

Eventually, Dean was hauled to his feet with a firm hand of Sam's clasped around his bicep. He heard the chinking of money, then the waitress said, "No, no, on... on the house," her voice still quiet.

Sam nodded his thanks before getting his other arm wrapped around Dean's shoulder and he navigated them through the crowd, out the door, and to the Impala. Dean remained half-leaning against Sam, suddenly feeling extremely safe in Sam's arms.

Once in the safety of the car once more, Dean felt more like himself, and, once the tension in the car settled around them like a thick fog, he read Sam's mind and said, " I didn't forget how to swallow Sam."

"Clearly."

"Look, it was like something closed off my throat, made it so I couldn't breathe. And it wasn't the bacon."

"Dean, there was no one there!"

"I'm telling you Sam, it wasn't me. I'm blind, that's it. It could've been the witch," Dean tried to reason.

"She wasn't in there!" Sam shouted, less out of frustration but more out of fear.

"What about that man? He obviously hated me enough. She could have put a disguise on herself."

Sam was silent as he weighed all of what Dean was saying. If it was something supernatural that had done that to Dean then he could kill it and save Dean. However that also meant that the witch knew where they were and could easily gain access to Dean again. She seemed desperate to kill him. Maybe she knew the threat he was. Even blind, Dean was still strong. And she obviously had all manner of powers at her disposal. Who knew what she'd try next. Although Sam could guess he'd probably need more than the Heimlich Manoeuvre. But how could he protect Dean if she was able to change forms? It could be anyone, look like anything. This thought was more terrifying than if Dean had just choked on bacon.

"I'll tell you another thing. I don't think I want bacon for a while."

Sam started suddenly, whipping his head to look at Dean in surprise. The light comment was hilarious compared to his dark thoughts. And Sam could only gape as he watched Dean stare out the window, his blank eyes looking nothing, but his mouth pulled into a small smile. Sam released a small snicker.

Sobering up, Sam said, "And although choking doesn't need blindness, it would certainly fit pattern with the other people who died from normal things, like the shooting and drowning."

Dean nodded then, for Sam, he added, "I'll be okay. I am okay."

"I know. I was just worried," Sam replied softly, finally releasing all of his pent up fear. The tension in the car dissipated.

"I know," was Dean's even softer response.

Sam started the ignition, the car coming to life beneath them. They'd been sitting in the parking lot for a while now and Sam had noticed various patrons sneaking glances at them. But the supposed witch had already left, so Sam hoped she/he wouldn't be back too soon. Still, he drove with a heavy foot back to the Red Spot Motel.

"I don't think you should come with me," were Sam's first words as they stepped into the room, his hand placed firmly on Dean's shoulder in front of him.

"You're not leaving me Sam."

"Dean, this is dangerous."

"Exactly. That's why I'm going with you." Dean shuffled his way to the left where he knew the bathroom was. He almost made it unscathed, except for the corner of a table snagging his leg, the lamp being knocked onto its side, and his shoulder colliding with the washroom's door frame.

"Dean please."

"No," Dean said before closing the bathroom door. Truthfully he knew where Sam was coming from. He'd have tied Sam to a chair, both cuffs and rope, before he let Sam anywhere near this hunt. But that's just how big brothers were. They protected their little brothers. Even blind, Dean was still older. Which made him want, no, need to go with Sam. To watch over him... or listen over him. Hell, Smell over him is he had to. As much as Sam didn't like it, Dean was going. That was that.

Fear curled over him. Not for himself. For Sam. The witch was powerful. That much they knew. She could be silent if she wanted to be. She was stealthy. And if she got the drop on them, if she got to Sam, Dean would never forgive himself for not being able to protect him. It was certainly another reason Dean wanted to go. If Sam bit it on this hunt, because Dean couldn't help him, Dean would rather die right along with Sam. There's no life without Sam. He'd already proven that by going to hell for the jerk. No, Dean would come. To fight or die.

"I'll have two eyes on you at all times," was the first thing Dean heard when he walked out of the bathroom. Dean grunted in response. At least that meant he was going with Sam without a fight.

To say both boys were nervous would be a major understatement. Breakfast seemed easy compared to what they were about to face. Sam packed their weapon bags and grabbed extra iron and matches from the car's trunk. Even armed to the teeth, they were both in terrible danger here. Sam as much as Dean. They were walking right into the centre of the witch's power, her house. She'd been dormant there for a long time, her power growing gradually for 300 years or so. Her bag o' tricks was enormous. They'd never fought anything so powerful and she had the handicap, figuratively.

Yet they hoped their 20-odd years of training would be enough. Each with a hoodoo Juju in their pocket for protection and an arsenal to kill an army, they set out, heading back to the ancient, creepy house.

Though, at barely 8:00 o'clock in the morning, the house didn't look as harsh. Sure it was half burnt and literally falling down at some points. Yet it was still just a small, gray, wooden house, with a faded red roof. It was rustic, with a large base and even larger slanting roof. It seemed barely tall enough for two stories. The small window up top, however, looked to belong to an attic. One could only guess what a witch would need an attic for.

The boys had left the car in a different place than last night and, consequently, it was further away. They trudged silently, each fully armed with silver and iron knives, extra lighters and matches, small canisters of salt, and, just in case, rock salt guns and pistols with silver bullets. They had been effective on other witches, though none as powerful and eternal as this one. Though, most importantly, they had their home-made flamethrowers.

As they approached the house, Sam shivered. It had a horrible aura around it. He'd felt it last night when they'd gotten close. It seemed worst today. Dean's grip on Sam's shoulder tightened. He felt the evil too.

Intending to going around to the back of the house, they kept to the treeline. The front would be obvious, and, from personal experience, they knew that door creaked something awful. The reached the back door... or a hole where the door should be. This section of the house had been a victim of the fire, and it still stood blackened in contrast to the greying wood of the front. The inside was really no better. Climbing over an angled beam, Dean skillfully feeling his way over, they could immediately feel the difference in the air. It was dark, musty, and cold.

They entered the kitchen, or what was left of it. The stone oven seemed to be the only recognizable feature. Everything else was gone. It had probably been ash before years of wind, rain, and intruding humans had cleared most of it out.

The next room was severely familiar as being the same room the boys had, literally in each others lap, huddled while the witch and Dean's flashlight had roamed the house. The boys entered through the same door the witch had exited through last night. They had been so close to freedom and had been forced to flee in the other direction.

"Oh, sorry, I guess you didn't see that," Sam whispered apologetically.

Dean's head swivelled toward Sam's voice, his eyes widening, realizing that Sam probably made some hand gesture he hadn't seen. He swallowed guiltily. "You don't need to signal. I'm following you," Dean whispered back.

"Right," Sam agreed, realizing Dean _was_ right. They weren't going to split up anyway. So Sam led the way through the room, which, even in full morning, was almost entirely dark. There were no windows. It was just a simple hallway that led to the stairway and what looked like a cubby under the stairs. Even still, Sam could just make out the railing Dean had tripped over last night and made sure to give it wide berth, throwing a disdainful glance at it. They'd go up stairs after clearing the first floor and looking for a basement.

Next room was the living room / dining room. The table still stood, three chairs sat around it. There was a long, old-fashioned set of drawers along the far wall, a work table / makeshift desk next to. An old yellowed candle still sat on it, half spent and covered in cobwebs. A small rocking chair, with one broken leg, sat unobtrusively in the corner of the room. And the main wall was taken up by a fireplace, where two logs still sat, rotten but unburnt. The left wall, the one closest to the kitchen was the one part of this room touched by the fire. Half the wall was missing where it had burnt and fallen down, but bits and pieces still protruded where the wall would have been. Through the wall was an empty room. There was nothing left in it, all having been destroyed by the fire. Sheets of plywood had been put up along two of the walls, or where the walls would have been. This seems to be where the fire was the worst. Another wall had been burnt down revealing another empty room, this one more charred than the last.

Finally the boys came upon the front door, shut and shadowed, still surrounded by the bed and roof that had fallen from above. So the upstairs was once a bedroom. Since this was the end of the line, that's where they were going next. As Sam turned, he hit the same rotten spot Dean had last night. It squeeked something awful. He was tempted to pound it with his foot, see what was underneath, maybe a basement. But that would mean being louder than they already were.

Though the search had been relatively quiet, every once in a while Sam would get so into the search he would forget that Dean needed to be watched as well. By then it was too late and Dean had tripped over a raised floor board, or bumped into a pole holding the roof up. Dean apologized profusely at first, guilty that he was making noise, when really it wasn't his fault that he was blind nor was it his fault Sam wasn't paying attention. But the apologizing was only making the situation more noticeable, so he shut up after the third time.

Now they headed back toward the staircase. It was their only option. Well, Sam's.

"Sam, you're not leaving me here," Dean whispered harshly.

"Yeah, I am."

"Sam," Dean warned.

"Look, if you come with me you'll be trapped up there. What if we need to make another quick get away? I won't be responsible if you fall down the stairs, or forget that the 4th step is missing or that the bottom has no more railing."

"Sam," Dean hissed again.

"Dean, please. Just wait for me here. Keep your back against the wall. Keep the flamethrower ready, and I'll be back quickly."

"And what if the witch is up there?"

"And what if she is? I'll have more room to fight." Dean flinched, suddenly feeling childishly unneeded. "Look, give me five minutes. I'm not down in five you can come up."

Already Sam was turning away, not really giving Dean a chance to answer. He could see many flaws with this plan. The witch attacking Sam and Dean not being there. Sam not coming down in five, Dean going up and torching anything he hears because he can't see, maybe even Sam. The witch down here with him, possibly no more than 2 feet away and Dean would never know it. She could cover her sounds with her magic. Dean was completely vulnerable without sight.

But he held the flamethrower ready anyway, lighter secured in his hand, even as both his hands shook with tension, cold, and definite unease. He tensed more as the wind knocked against the side of the building. He could feel the hard wood against his back and that served to reassure him that at least one side of him was covered. But the other 3 sides felt distinctly vulnerable.

And man, was Dean ever vulnerable. Despite what the boys thought, the witch had been aware of their every move since they stepped foot onto her property. She'd set the alarms up this morning. And now she watched Dean as he shifted nervously from side to side, straining to hear anything other than the sounds of his brother's footsteps above him. And he was counting! Under his breath Dean was counting to 300. Five minutes. Yeah right. He wouldn't even reach 50. Not if she could help it... and she could.

Her anger whipped out at the human standing mere feet in front of her. Her pure anger. And that was all it took. Dean stopped breathing. Absolutely no air was getting into his pathetic body. Unconsciousness would soon follow. Then death. But that's not what she wanted. She wanted him alive, for now. Just until preparations were complete.

Dean's eyes widened to the size of quarters. It was exactly as it had felt at the restaurant, like someone was holding him by the throat and not letting go. He was getting light headed. He tried to make a fist around the lighter to bang for help, but found he couldn't move. He was immobilized in fighting stance, as his oxygen slowly ran out. Tears sprung to his eyes, and one fell as he thought about Sam and his face when he found Dean dead. Another fell when he thought of what Sam would do to get him back this time. Finally, a third fell thinking that the witch would probably do the same to Sam, and Dean would be too dead to do anything about it. At long last, blissful unconsciousness took him.

**To be continued...**

* * *

**A/N:** Dean always seems to be in trouble! Blind, now a witch! Please review! It's really encouraging.

BTW, could some of you skip over to a drabble of mine called **Zeal for Life**. I didn't get many reviews, so I wondered if you could cheer me up and leave me some more! Thank-you!


	4. Chapter 4

_Disclaimer: Everything belongs to their respective owners; Eric Kripke, the CW/WB._

**A/N**: I'd like to give a shout-out to all who are reviewing this story! Thank-you all for the support! Get ready for Hurt!Dean!

A note of warning, this chapter has mentions of attempted rape. Not graphic, but I just want everyone warned.

* * *

_Last chapter:_

_The witch's anger whipped out at the human standing mere feet in front of her. Her pure anger. And that was all it took. Dean stopped breathing. Absolutely no air was getting into his pathetic body. Unconsciousness would soon follow. Then death. But that's not what she wanted. She wanted him alive, for now. Just until preparations were complete._

_Dean's eyes widened to the size of quarters. It was exactly as it had felt at the restaurant, like someone was holding him by the throat and not letting go. He was getting light headed. He tried to make a fist around the lighter to bang for help, but found he couldn't move. He was immobilized in fighting stance, as his oxygen slowly ran out. Tears sprung to his eyes, and one fell as he thought about Sam and his face when he found Dean dead. Another fell when he thought of what Sam would do to get him back this time. Finally, a third fell thinking that the witch would probably do the same to Sam, and Dean would be too dead to do anything about it. At long last, blissful unconsciousness took him._

**Sammy, I Can't See!**  
**Chapter 4**

"Morning," came a chipper voice that made is head throb. "Sleep well?" She sounded distinctly beautiful... and strangely familiar.

Dean struggled to open his eyes, to see the face that went with the voice. He attempted to bring his hand to his face but found his arms stiff and stuck. He tugged against what felt like rough rope binding each of his hands. They wouldn't budge. Extremely worried, Dean pried his eyes open. Or he thought he did. He felt himself blink. But everything was black. Still black.

"Would you look at that sky," the woman muttered. "But no, I guess you can't, can you?"

She was within inches of his face. Suddenly, he smelled something that brought everything back. Eggs and bacon. The scent was light, but there was no denying it. And it reminded him of that morning - or he hoped it was that morning. The restaurant, being blind, choking, and the waitress... That's who she sounded like. It was the waitress. All along. It was her. He should have known! Sheila loved her job as a waitress. She wouldn't get sick without calling in at very least. "What'd you do with Sheila?"

"Who, the waitress? I didn't do anything to her." Dean snorted disbelievingly. "You humans just don't know the truth when it slaps you in the face!" She shrieked, slapping Dean across the face. And did it ever sting! "Sheila is at home with a cold, resting peacefully I'm sure. I don't hurt women. They are more pure then men." She spat the last word like it was a curse.

"Yeah, we just can't keep our eyes off other women," Dean mocked. He pulled hard at his bonds, he felt the strength of them. His feet were also bound. He lay on a hard wooden surface at the mercy of a witch. A majorly pissed off one too!

"What, a cheat? Ha! That's a laugh. No. I'm talking about the desecration of my clan! The women stayed home, like good little girls, while their pig-filthy husbands torched us."

"So, now you're going after any men you can find?"

"Any who dare step onto my clan's land!"

"By making them blind and letting them kill themselves," Dean clarified.

"Yes!" the witch screeched.

"Come on. Choking on my own breakfast? Not exactly something I need to be blind for," Dean mocked, even as he shivered.

"Yeah, well, I noticed immediately how your stupid brother reacted to this situation. It wasn't normal. He was _way _too protective over you. Too much like the big brother, when it came right down to it. So, I knew I would have to interfere." She clicked her tongue thoughtfully. "I have to do that from time to time. Interfere. People just don't die like they used to. Even though, oddly enough, the world is way more dangerous now a-days. Yet you humans have done a superb job at adapting. It's awe-inspiring... In a 'I want to rip out my hair and gouge out my eye balls' kind of way."

"Oh, nice image there," Dean drawled, pulling fastidiously on his restraints.

"Yet you just wouldn't die! It was early enough in the morning. Sam wasn't around at that moment. So I thought "Perfect! Now's the time!" And your coughing fit gave me the idea. And then who comes gallivanting in to save the day but little brother. Hm. Well, when I get done with him, he'll deeply wish he had ditched out on you and skipped town when he had the chance."

Fear curled around Dean's heart. She had Sam? And who know what she would do to him. She was obviously pissed, in a calm sort of way. Rationality and calm are the most dangerous traits in a foe, especially when said enemy has your baby brother. "Where is he?"

"Around." A non-specific answer. Maybe she didn't really have him. Demons aren't the only ones who lie. Yet... "Of course, he asked the same about you. "Where is he? What have you done to him?"" She mocked, deepening her voice and making Dean want to puke.

"If you hurt him, I swear to God-"

"What? What will you do Dean? Burn me like you burned my friends? My family?"

"I didn't do it."

"No, but your race did! They massacred my village. Burned everything and everyone around them with big, fat, butt-ugly smiles on their stupid, pathetic faces! Just because of what we were. The humans were drunk with joy. They laughed, they sang... and then they slaughtered us like livestock! But I survived. I alone lived through that horrible night, stuck with nightmares. For years I dreamed of my mother's face as she begged me to leave. "I'll fight them!" she had screamed, running into a group of men with torches. And they burned her! And my little brother! They burned them all! I hate them for what those filthy, rotten humans did! Why did I survive? Why me? Why not them? I asked myself these questions for years, as I lingered, only half alive, waiting until I was strong enough again. And when I woke up, you know what I found? I was stronger than ever before. I also discovered my inheritance. My grandmother's speciality. The gift of darkness. Taking away the guys' sight and setting them loose. They all died back then... And now it's your turn. Not so fast." She turned sharply in time to see Dean with one hand almost free, ready to untie his other.

But she was fast, and the restraints were retied tighter than before. They hurt. Dean's hands were going numb. Her pale fingers dragged down his prone body, lingering near his organ, and, against his wishes, it reacted. Dean's heart leapt into his throat. She wouldn't rape him, would she? She didn't toy with her victims. She just disabled them and killed them. Yet here he was, spread-eagle on a table, totally accessible. And she was circling him and talking to him with such anger in her voice... he wasn't sure what she would do. Yet, no matter the amount of women he'd slept with, he didn't want to be raped. The thought was frightening, terrifying. His trembling intensified.

It reminded him too much of tenth grade - with the high school soccer coach.

_Flashback_

"Hey honey, you know, I got an empty room after school. You and me... we could fill it."

"You're funny Dean."

"I'm adorable. Admit it!"

The cheerleader chuckled to her friends, but kept walking. Dean kept his seductive grin on until just before she was going to round the corner to leave the courtyard, she turned around, saw his smile, and winked at him. She turned the corner and Dean mentally high-fived himself.

"Dean Winchester?"

Dean turned, hands held in the pockets of his leather jacket, to see the new soccer coach walking toward him. He did a once over of the coach and determined him to be young and friendly, so Dean nodded.

"Please come with me to my office." The coach turned around, and Dean silently followed with a cocky grin on his face. Getting into trouble, then out of it, was one of his favourite games. So far, he hadn't lost.

"Have a seat," the coach said, indicating a wooden chair in the far corner of the room. "So, you have a crush on Sandra Milton?"

Dean's grin widened, while thinking to himself, not exactly a crush.

"Now, girls are fine specimens. Certainly gorgeous to look at , but you'll want to watch out for their claws. Rip into you and tear out your heart."

"I don't get that close, in that sense of the word," Dean found himself responding.

"You're not a virgin?" The abrupt phrasing of it had caught Dean off guard and he shut his trap before he said any more. "That's good," The coach muttered. "Won't be as scared." Dean wasn't sure he was meant to hear the last part. The coach's voice had dropped so low, it was almost inaudible. But Dean had been training his senses for years, so he caught what the young man said. Dean then heard a little click. The coach locked the door. Without even turning to Dean, he whispered, "You have nice eyes." Dean's smile dropped as he sat up straighter. "And a nice body," the coach moaned quietly. Dean stood up sharply, knocking over the chair. The coach was a good six inches taller than Dean, and he was a soccer coach and assistant gym teacher, which meant he was fit.

Dean then saw a look pass through the man's eyes, like he knew the gig was up, so the coach took the direct approach. Getting the drop on Dean because he had had his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, the coach shoved him against a wall, face first. One of Dean's hands was pinned between his abdomen and the wall. The other was in the coach's grasp, being held tight against the wall. "You're beautiful," the man breathed onto his neck, into his ear. The hair on Dean's body stood up.

The worst part, though, was the feeling of the man's member against Dean's back. He could feel the man's excitement. Dean's breath hitched. This man wouldn't hurt him, would he? He was a teacher after all. They were supposed to protect kids. He wouldn't really do it, in the middle of school in the middle of the day, would he? Would he kill Dean when he was done, to shut him up?

"You're beautiful," he murmured against Dean again. Dean shuddered.

_End Flashback_

The memory still brought a chill to Dean's spine and bile to his mouth.

He'd escaped getting raped that time though, by fighting for his freedom. Needless to say, he never met up with Sandra Milton that day. Or any other. And he'd never told a soul what happened. Sure, he'd had hunter training, but that experience had embarrassed him and horrified him. To think Dean almost got bested by a short-short wearing soccer idiot. Later he learned the bastard's name was Harvey. Beyond his name, Dean severed all thoughts of him, distracting himself with frisky women and a lot of beer.

Eventually, though, the witch wondered away from his mid section and down to his feet where she checked the bonds and adjusted where necessary. They felt even tighter than his hand restraints. They helped to bring him back to this moment.

"Oh, I never introduced myself. I'm Morgan by the way."

Dean swallowed, shaking off the shiver he got. "What, like King Arthur?"

"I was named after Morgan Le Fay, yes."

"Original." The witch said nothing. "So, why are you talking to me? Why not just let me die like your other victims?" Dean swallowed hard.

"Oh, I've changed my mind. I have a better purpose for you. You're going to be made an example of. I'm going to teach a value lesson to these buffoons in town."

"And what lesson's that?"

Morgan chuckled softly, returning to Dean's side, and once more trailed her fingers along Dean's body, making him fidget nervously, before her long claws came up to his face, his lips. And getting so close that Dean could feel her eyelashes on his cheek, she whispered, "That murder, that genocide, will not go unpunished. Myself included."

Dean's eyes widened and he turned his face toward her voice, wishing desperately that he could see her. She sighed lustfully at his confused look. "It's been a long time since any man held me. A long time." Well shit. If Dean, and this town, weren't royally screwed. He could practically feel her lust coming off of her in waves. Yet not only that, but another emotion. Determination. She was deadly serious about this plan. And the only thing worse than a 300-year-old witch was a 300-year-old witch with plans of annihilation and not caring whether she lived or died.

"And where do I come in?" Dean asked lightly, hoping to distract her from tracing his face.

"You're going to be my power source."

"Heh. What, a witch like you can't ice a few measly humans on her own?"

"Who said anything about just "icing" them. They burned my family for pleasure-"

"You were killing them too."

"-and, in turn, they will suffer eternal fir. Under the light bearer's directive of course," Morgan finished as if he hadn't of spoken.

"Light b- Lucifer? You're going to send these poor bastards to hell? The whole town?"

"Just the men," the witch corrected cheerfully. "Which is why I need you. I need the blood of a pure man to taint the souls of others pure. Your blood will be their ticket into the underworld. As a bonus, you've even been there. So you know the secret password," Morgan whispered, like she was keeping a secret.

"I don't know the password to anything. And I'm not going to help you kill an entire town!"

"Of course not. You wouldn't be pure if you helped willingly. But you will help. You have no choice."

Dean's head was racing. This witch was ten kinds of crazy. Had a few screws loose. Maybe the fire had effected her head. Dean fleetingly remembered the witch's face as she had choked him, before she'd taken his sight. She was half scarred. Hell was all scarred. Those souls wouldn't last a week down there. Most of them shouldn't be going down there. They'd done nothing wrong. And they were going to be condemned for something their ancestors did? Most of them came from other towns for Christ sake.

"Yes, they will get punished. Blood for blood." Dean hadn't even realized he'd said the last bits out loud. "Their ancestors did the deed, but that blood now flows through them. The others... they're collateral damage. Besides, I'm sure they did something to deserve-"

"What? Hell?" Dean screamed at Morgan. He could help but remember an old phrase he'd heard, "Hatred breeds hatred and if the cycle is not broken, more blood will be shed" He shouted, "They did nothing too wrong that they can't be forgiven. Sure, there are a couple bad apples in a barrel, but it doesn't mean they're all bad. Some humans are good. Most of them don't deserve Hell."

"They're all bad apples! Stinkin', rotten, filthy, steaming piles of excrement."

"You really enjoy the imagery, don't you?"

"You'd understand if you saw things from my perspective," she whispered softly. Her shoes clicked on the wooden floor as she walked away. There was a screech of a door as it opened. It thudded shut. And the clicking of the witch's shoes got quieter and quieter until the house was silent once more.

...

He'd searched the entire house, from top to bottom. Dean was definitely not here. Sam had even dared to leave the house to check by the car. The car was still there, and just as quiet as the house. Sam was panicking. He'd been gone for no more than two minutes. There'd been nothing upstairs. Just a half-burnt bedroom with a hole in the floor where the bed had fallen through. One wall had been boarded up, another part of the floor was dangerously close to falling, and one door literally fell off its old hinges right into his hands. He'd barely caught the heavy door before it was sent crashing to the floor. In all, he managed a few scraping sounds that he was sure Dean would hear but not deem necessary to come running up the stairs.

Sam had been reassured when Dean hadn't coming running, or shuffling more like, into the room. Eventually the bedroom / attic was searched thoroughly and Sam headed back to the stairs, whispering to Dean that it was all clear. But he heard no returning whisper. Not even the creak of a floor board. So, Sam went, rather slowly, down the stairs, making sure to avoid the missing fourth step. And when he was at the bottom, even in the impossibly dim light, Sam knew for sure that Dean was not where he'd left him. The small hallway was empty. Under the stairs were empty. And after two searches, Sam was sure the entire house was empty.

No Dean. Not anywhere. He hadn't heard anything. But he really wanted to slap himself to think that the witch wouldn't have known they were there. Of course she would. It was her home. Her powers were in the walls themselves. She'd probably seen them stumbling all through her hovel, just waiting for the opportunity to snatch Dean when Sam stupidly left his brother alone. Why hadn't he taken Dean with him upstairs? Oh right! To prevent something exactly like this!

Well, there was no more need for stealth. The witch obviously knew Sam was there. So, as he ran full tilt back towards the Impala, Sam scrambled for his cell phone and hit speed dial 2.

"Hullo?"

"Bobby? It's Sam. Something's got Dean."

It was a short conversation as Sam filled Bobby in on the witch and what they suspected of her, and, of course, about Dean going blind. Sam was given a verbal bashing for not having called him sooner. "A 300-year-old witch isn't something you send only two hunters in to take care of, Sam!"

"Yeah, thanks! Next time I find one I'll be sure to give you a call. Can we focus on this one please, so we can rescue Dean!"

"Don't yell at me boy!"

"Bobby!"

"All right, all right. Keep your shorts on. 300-year-old witches are pure power. None of that 'the demon owns my soul' crap. It's all her own strength. Which means it can grow as she grows." Sam distinctly heard books being pulled from shelves and paper rustling. It was the sounds of something being done and he let his grip relax on the steering wheel as he drove with a lead foot back to the motel room. "Lots of witches are killed with bullets, silver of course being the most effective against the most evil of them. But a classic out-of-the-middle-ages witch is impervious to such a modern weapon. That's why fire works so well. It's an ancient weapon."

"I know that Bobby! And I'm not going to burn her entire house down if there's a chance Dean's still inside."

Bobby ignored Sam's petulant tone and went on to say, "You may have to." Sam nearly dropped the phone. "You told me how you felt the witch's power radiating from the whole house, like she was in the walls themselves." Sam nodded to himself. Obviously Bobby couldn't see it. But Bobby continued, "Given the nature of the house and the land, the fact that all these witches had grown up there and lived there and where this witch dwelled for years, I have no doubt that she became part of that house. You may have to destroy a power source of hers to weaken her enough to get to her and kill her."

"But what if Dean is in that house! I can't risk that!"

"I'm doing a search on his cellphone right now. Do you know his password?"

"Maryw1954."

"Original." Sam grunted. "Hold on, let me call 'em." A scratch was heard when Bobby put the phone down.

Sam took a shaky breath. Trust Bobby to know what to do. He would have gotten to it back at the motel, but the sooner the better. Bobby was quick on the drop. He knew what needed to be done and he knew how to do it well.

Quicker than Dean had ever been able to do it, Bobby was back and saying, "He's marked on an empty plot of land, right where you said the coven had been located so-"

"He's still in that house," Sam hissed. With a sharp screech of tires, Sam was turning around and, even faster, raced back to the house.

"Sam, don't do anything stupid!"

"If Dean's still in that house, I have to find him. I have to get him out, away from the witch, and I'll burn her, her house, and her whole plot of land!"

"Sam, you have to calm down!"

"She took away Dean's sight and he may not always say his feelings, but I know, Bobby. I know how much this is hurting him. He's scared he won't be able to take care of me. And he's scared I'll leave him because of the blindness! Now, she's got him in that house doing who knows what to him. I can't let her hurt him anymore. I just can't."

"... Just be careful, ya idjit."

**To be continued...**

* * *

**A/N:** Sam to the rescue next chapter! And what he sees won't be pretty! I hope nothing was too graphic for anyone. Let me know.

BTW, could some of you skip over to a drabble of mine called **Zeal for Life**. I didn't get many reviews, so I wondered if you could cheer me up and leave me some more! Thank-you!


	5. Chapter 5

_Disclaimer: Everything belongs to their respective owners; Eric Kripke, the CW/WB._

**A/N**: Some people mentioned last chapter was perfect. Others expressed interest in the first version I had of the Flashback with Dean and the soccer coach. If you let me know what you'd like, I may be able to whip up something with more graphic or whatnot. However, here and now, we have some Hurt!Dean to contend with!

Another warning, there are more mentions of attempted rape, but it's truly not graphic.

* * *

_Last Chapter:_

_"Sam, you have to calm down!"_

_"She took away Dean's sight and he may not always say his feelings, but I know, Bobby. I know how much this is hurting him. He's scared he won't be able to take care of me. And he's scared I'll leave him because of the blindness! Now, she's got him in that house doing who knows what to him. I can't let her hurt him anymore. I just can't."_

_"... Just be careful, ya idjit."_

**Sammy, I Can't See!  
Chapter 5**

It hurt. It burned something terrible. But the physical torture wasn't the worst of it. It was the mental torture. No name calling or insults but literal mind torture. She put all manner of images in his head, all kinds of feelings, none of them pleasant. He was back in Hell, Alistair's looming figure in front of him as he cut out his eyes with a spoon and ripped out his tongue with his bare hands. He was back in tenth grade, back in that small gym office, only this time he wasn't strong enough to get away, wasn't strong enough to fight Harvey off of him. He was crouched in the mud, rain splattering his back, as he held Sam's prone figure, the life in him long gone. He was back down in Hell. Sam was with him. He heard Sam's screams over and over and over and over... reverberating in his head non-stop. And, in turn, he screamed. Begging Alistair to stop, begging Harvey to stop. Begging everyone to stop.

Every image was as sharp as if it were really happening. She got all the faces from his memory. It all felt real, and Dean was beginning to mix what had really happened and what she wanted him to see.

Morgan had said it was all part of the plan, that she needed Dean broken before she could take the blood she needed. As long as he had will left, as long as he didn't want her to have the blood, she couldn't take it. When he was no longer coherent enough to object, then she could take it.

In amongst all the fabricated images were real ones as well. The most prominent one Dean could see was the present situation. The witch wanted his blood to desecrate the entire town, foreigners, travellers, and locals alike. Sam was a traveller, and Sam, along with the rest of the town, would actually be sent to Hell. He was in Hell again. Sam was on the rack... Dean was off. And he cut into his brother, his screams washing over him, filling him up to contentment. Sam's tears brought a smile to his face.

Without even realizing it, Dean puked on the witch's shoes as he smelled Sam's blood and felt it slip on his hands. He managed to choke on a bit it though, and the witch was instantly holding his head up, saying, "Uh uh, you aren't escaping me that easy. You actually have to be alive for this to work." He got quite a bit of excess on his shirt. That burned his nose even more. Then she let his head drop painfully back onto the table for ruining her red shoes.

But Sam really would be in town when all this went down. Dean would really be responsible for sending Sam to Hell. Because he was too weak, too pathetic, he'd be the cause of an entire town going someplace they don't deserve. All he could think was, "Sam, run. Please run. Leave me here. Forget me. Just run!" before other thoughts assaulted him and he all but forgot about this town.

...

The witch observed Dean's writhing. Sweat poured off the human, his face gleamed in the candle light. His teeth chattered when they weren't clenched together in pain. She was certainly putting him though the works. Physical torture, sexual torture, mental torture, all of it in his head of course. Sure. She'd started out actually hurting him, but when he spat in her face, mocking him, she was forced to resort to something a little more potent.

His screams brought her pleasure. She was finally getting her revenge on the filthy humans. Her plan was in motion. His screams also hurt her ears. It reminded her too much of her little brother who, while she'd hidden under a set of stairs, had been burned right in front of her. She'd been paralysed, too scared to help him. He'd begged for them to stop, tears streamed down his face. The humans, though, they had laughed and danced around him, which was the only reason she stayed in the room with this filth, waiting for him to break. So she, in turn, could laugh at his pain.

"Sammy!" Dean finally screamed from in between mumbles and moans.

She smiled, yet still couldn't bring herself to laugh. "Timmy!" she'd screamed, watching her little brother die. That's when the humans noticed her and set her home aflame. It had caught her red silk dress and before she had time to stop it, she was burning. She smelled her own flesh burning, felt it pop and sizzle. Then she passed out. She had no idea how she survived. Or even how half of her home was still standing. All she knew was 300 years later she had fully awoken in her bedroom. Sure, her bed had fallen through the floor, and the place had been terribly burnt; yet it still looked like it had all those years ago.

Her very own work table that her father had made before he'd died when she was a child, which now held the struggling human. Her small, round window with a view that used to look out onto a small pond. That pond had long ago dried up and been overgrown with shrubs, but she could still picture it. She'd had to get some candles to light up the room. They had everlasting flames, conjured from her father's side of the family, preservation charms. They'd been lit since she got them, about a year ago.

Her dress unfortunately hadn't survived. The one she wore now was only an illusion of what she used to wear. She could never get her dress back, one her mother had made with the blood of the family. It had been very special to her. And it was gone. Because of creatures like the one on her table, completely at her mercy. As they all would be soon enough.

Blaring loudly, alarms went off in her head. Not like bells. More like gongs. Someone had crossed onto her property and were headed this way. Good, someone else she could kill.

...

Sam raced down the dirt road toward the house. He didn't try stealth anymore. The witch probably sensed him coming from long off. So, he would present himself to her. No more hiding. No more playing. He was going to get his brother back. Careful just wasn't going to cut it.

The tired screeched at him as he braked only 10 feet from the house. She definitely knew he was here now. He revved the engine, challenging her to come out and face him. He would smash through the house if that's what it took to get her out here. "I'll get you Dean."

...

She peered down at him through her window. How dare he sit there, mocking her. There were now tire marks across her yard.

"Your brother's going to pay."

Dean thrashed more wildly.

...

She wasn't coming. Sam knew that much. The house was just as quiet as before. No lights, no movements. Nothing. So, he shut off the engine and tramped up the front porch to her door. It creaked just as loudly as last night. Sam payed it no mind. He worked his way over the blockade at the door.

"Hello Sammy." Sam stopped dead. Turning, Sam directed his glare to where the voice coming from... above him. A curly-haired red-head peeked through the hole on the ceiling. The witch. He instantly recognized her as the waitress.

"You," he hissed.

"Me." Before the word was even out of her mouth, Sam shot a stream of flame at her, targeting the hole while trying to avoid the wood lest it catch. He held it for a few seconds then stopped it. It was silent. Then she poked her head through again. "I'd watch it, unless you want to kill your brother," she snarled.

Sam, poised and ready to shoot her with more fire, froze. Dean was up there with her? He didn't bother asking. He turned and booked it to the stairs, going up three at a time. The door at the end of the hall hadn't moved from where he'd leaned against the wall when it had fallen off. He rushed into the room. There was nothing.

The room was empty, dirty, cold, quiet. Just like it had been the last time he'd been up here. "Dean," Sam whispered.

"Sammy." Sam whirled around, only to see the empty hallway. "Sammy." Sam could hear the voice. He was sure it was Dean. But there was nothing there. It was just an empty room.

"Dean? Dean! Where are you?" Sam shouted. "What have you done to him?"

"Sammy. Sammy, no. Not Sammy. Leave him alone. No! Sammy! Sammy." The voice got closer and closer, hitting him from all sides. "Your brother's pathetic," the witch whispered in his ear, from right behind him.

Sam spun around again. This time the witch was standing there. Her face was scarred, just like Dean had said. And her dress. It was the same one from last night. Long, blood red silk. "Where is he?"

"Sammy. Leave him alone. Please!" the witch mocked, imitating Dean's voice perfectly.

"You said he was up here," Sam whispered, heart rate speeding up and shifting from foot to another.

"He is. He's behind you."

Sam couldn't help but look. Dean still wasn't there.

"Where is he!"

"You aren't seeing." Then using only one hand, palm out, she shoved him backward. Instead of flying all the way to the wall however, he hit something that wasn't there. Something hard and invisible. He turned, squinting to see what it was. There was still nothing there. But his hands said otherwise. He felt wood. The edge of what felt like a wooden table. Then he felt something on top that had him pulling his hand back. It had felt warm, and soft, and he was almost positive it was Dean's leather jacket.

The air around the invisible thing began to shimmer, like a heat wave was going through. Suddenly, the room was lit bright by dozens of candles. He shut his eyes rapidly before a whimper hit his ears.

Cautiously he opened his eyes, and tears sprung to them when he saw Dean before him, thrashing wildly against bloody restraints, like he was stuck in a nightmare, face bruised and scratched. Immediately, his hands flew to Dean, entwining in the leather jacket and red button-up underneath, avoiding what looked like his brother's own vomit. "Dean!"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Dean mumbled again and again.

"You're okay Dean. Wake up."

"He can't." Sam looked at the witch as she leaned against the far wall with a small alter beside her on the floor. "You see, he's stuck in his own head, reliving his worst nightmares over and over again."

"Please don't," Dean whispered.

Sam's anger flared and he brought the flamethrower up, ready to burn the witch and he would enjoy it. But the witch's anger took over the room. It curled around him and wrapped him in a blanket, paralysing him. He couldn't move his finger's to squeeze the trigger or to light his lighter. He was frozen solid, his face frozen with a penetrating glare. She glared harder.

"You humans and fire. Disgusting. You don't like something, you burn it!"

"Yeah, and you're next on my list," he managed to say, even as she forced his mouth shut.

The witch's glare intensified, the anger in the room became palpable. It twirled around her and knocked Sam off his feet. It whipped her silk dress around her ankles. Sam finally had to cover his head as pieces of roof and wall flew around the room. Head covered, Sam tried to stand, tried to get to Dean. The whirlwind held him still.

"Filthy humans. You'll pay for what you've done!"

Sam dared not set off the flamethrower, even if he could. It would probably engulf the whole room in seconds, him and Dean included. However, Sam pried his eyes opened and, instead of darkness and chaos like he expected, the candles were still lit and the alter behind her was untouched. Sure, the candles flickered, casting the room in a terribly eerie glow. But Sam knew the candles must be magic if they were still lit. And the alter. Maybe if he could break the alter, Dean would snap out of his nightmare.

"You'll pay for what _you've_ done!" Sam screamed back at the witch. His voice was drowned out in the tornado though.

She still managed to hear him however, for the force of her anger receded gradually, until the room was once more still and quiet, save for Dean whimpering, "Please stop. Harvey."

Sam didn't have time to ponder who Harvey was. He leapt to his feet and noticed Dean wasn't harmed anymore than he'd been before. The witch either had great control over her anger or there were spells protecting things in this room, like Dean. Either way, for once, Sam was grateful. "Wake up Dean. Please."

"Stop," Dean muttered.

Sam's hands gently manoeuvred around Dean's bruises to cup his cheeks, running the pads of his thumbs over Dean's eyes and wiping away salt trails and new tears. Dean fought against the hands, trying to buck them off. Sam held tight. "Dean," Sam whispered in Dean's ear. It appeared to frighten Dean more. He whimpered, like Sam was brutally wounding him. Sam used one of his hands to lift Dean's head away from the table, to stop it from bumping so he wouldn't damage himself further. He also placed his cheek against Dean's. Holding Dean's head as still as possible, Sam whispered gently in his ear anything he thought would calm his brother down. Running his hand lightly through Dean's hair, Sam felt the blood at the back of his head, possibly from all the thrashing he'd been doing.

Sam thought he'd gotten through to Dean when his brother said, "Sammy, make it stop."

Before he could response however, Sam was shoved aside and knocked to the floor once more. The witch was at Dean's side now, speaking softly in his ear. Sam witnessed Dean cringing away from the words. He pleaded with her to make it stop. Whatever he was seeing in his head, it was killing him.

"Yes. Just, please stop." Dean's voice was hoarse from screaming and crying.

The witch smiled. Sam rose from the floor. Before he could say or do anything, the witch had pulled out a blade, hovering it over Dean's wrist as a chalice appeared out of thin air. Sam rushed forward, intent on stopping the blade from slicing his brother. An invisible wall rose up between Sam and Dean though. He couldn't get past it. He could only watch as Dean's red and already bleeding wrists were slashed open lengthwise and drained. Dean choked, too tired to scream anymore.

**To be continued...**

* * *

**A/N:** Seriously, I'm evil. You guys are blowing to away with the enthusiasm though. Please keep it up! Review!

I also created a new **poll **on my profile and I would love the input! After you review of course! xD


	6. Chapter 6

_Disclaimer: Everything belongs to their respective owners; Eric Kripke, the CW/WB._

**A/N**: There's a bit of an OOC section in here, something that even I don't believe about Dean. But it was effective for the story. I hope it won't deter you!

And honestly, it's not that bad!

* * *

_Last Chapter:_

_"Yes. Just, please stop." Dean's voice was hoarse from screaming and crying._

_The witch smiled. Sam rose from the floor. Before he could say or do anything, the witch had pulled out a blade, hovering it over Dean's wrist as a chalice appeared out of thin air. Sam rushed forward, intent on stopping the blade from slicing his brother. An invisible wall rose up between Sam and Dean though. He couldn't get past it. He could only watch as one of Dean's red and already bleeding wrists was slashed open lengthwise and drained. Dean choked, too tired to scream anymore._

**Sammy, I Can't See!  
Chapter 6**

The chalice wasn't all that large. It filled rather quickly. The witch chortled as Dean whimpered. She finally turned away from Dean, wiping the bloody blade on Dean's maroon button up, a few smears managing to get on the leather jacket. Slowly, reverently, she slipped over to her alter, placing the chalice of blood dead centre of an alter cloth. Kneeling down, she began a slow Latin chant.

The invisible wall in front of Sam began to shift, shimmering briefly, before collapsing all together. Sam stumbled forward slightly from when he'd been leaning on the barrier. Immediately, Sam turned to Dean and rushed to his side, releasing a breath he'd been holding when he saw his brother's eyes open, even if only into little slits.

"Dean," Sam whispered, so an not to startle Dean or alert the witch.

"Sammy?" Dean's eyes widen minutely, his head lolled to one side, toward Sam's worried voice.

"Oh, thank God." Again, Sam released a breath, the warm air slipping across Dean's face for how close they were together. Dean was awake, finally. His face still looked pained, his brow furrowed in confusion and fear. His fists were clenched tightly, large drops of blood dripping from his nails biting into his palms, the cords rubbing into his wrists and the verticle slashs from the blade. Sam reached quickly for one of Dean's fists. Dean flinched violently and Sam recoiled. "Shh, Dean. It's okay."

A new tear rolled down Dean's face. Sam kept his gaze locked with Dean's as he tenderly rested his palm on Dean's chest. Dean twitched again, yet his blank stare did not wonder from Sam's face. Moving slowly, Sam slid his hand up Dean's arm and to his wrist, wrapping his digits around the wound which still bled profusely. The other hand quickly untied the cord holding Dean down.

Dean sighed audibly when he realized he was finally being released.

Sam made quick work of Dean's other hand, using the same slow approach so as not to startle Dean. The second cord was untied. Shrugging off his beige jacket and blue plaid button up leaving him in his midnight blue T-shirt, Sam wrapped the button-up several times around Dean's bleeding wrist; straightaway, Sam saw red taint the blue. Dean groaned in pain as Sam prodded Dean into a sitting position, after releasing the bonds on his feet as well, finally swinging Dean's legs over the side of the table.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?"

Abruptly dropping Dean's arms, Dean wavering unsteadily, Sam whirled on the snarling witch, raising his flamethrower. Her nostrils flare, her curly red hair cast shadows across her face.

"You dare-" The witch swept her hand in a dramatic arc and sent Sam backward, straight into a wooden wall that groaned against his weight, only a foot from the open hole in the floor. His head thudded painfully and stars flew to his vision. "-threaten me?" The witch strode forward, swiftly kicking Sam in the stomach, her rounded red shoes digging into his gut. Sam gasped, dragging air painfully into his lungs. Clutching his stomach for protection, Sam fell sideways, laying fully on the ground, back still to the wall. "You blood thirsty humans will pay!" Her animosity sent a shiver down Sam's spine. She kicked him again, in the chest this time, surely breaking at least one rib and once against sweeping the air from his lungs. Her anger grabbed hold of the air surrounding Sam.

No matter how hard his sucked, no air entered his lungs. He grabbed his throat, desperately pleading for oxygen. His vision blurred further as tears enveloped his eyes. Sam only hacked the remaining air out of his lungs, which the witch's fury promptly grabbed and stole before Sam could re-inhale it. His vision grew darker, his mind fogged. The last thought he had before passing into unconsciousness was, "Just please, don't hurt Dean." And his head thudded dully against the floor.

"Fool," the witch spat. In spite, she sent another heel flying to Sam's face, effectively breaking his nose, sending blood streaming down his still unmoving face. Bending down, she tutted softly to herself as she dragged her finger down his paling face. He still had no air. He still couldn't breathe. Soon enough he would be dead. "A shame too. He has such handsome feature," the witch murmured seductively.

"Hey Morgan! Get you filthy hands off my brother." The witch stood swiftly, taking in the sight of Dean, face contorted in pain and anger, yet holding a flamethrower steadily in his hand, a lighter held before it, poised and ready to light. Yet, that was impossible. Dean was still blind. He couldn 't...

The witch had no time to finish that though nor to answer, no time to even avoid a brilliant, blazing surge of flame overtaking her, first catching his red silk dressed. She brushed ineffectively at it as it travelled up her body, finally lighting her hair and she screamed. The sound hurt Dean's ears and he collapsed to the ground, holding the flamethrower and lighter against his head, blocking the noise.

Suddenly, Dean heard the unmistakeable sound of a fire crackling. However, it was coming from behind him. Only a wall was behind him though. It couldn't be... Hastily, Dean reached an arm out... it it didn't even make it behind him before he recoiled in from the heat. The wall right beside him was scorching. He then felt the heat creeping up his back from behind him. Shit! Dean had inadvertently lit the whole room on fire! Yet, Dean had heard the undeniable sound of his brother hitting a wall earlier. If that was true then... "Sam!"

Keeping his injured and numb wrist to his chest, Dean crawled forward, hand brushing a familiar fabric Dean determined to be Sam's discarded jacket. Seizing it up, he kept moving. Dean's breathing sped up, starting to get scared he'd past his brother, and was just about to back track when a something soft brushed his fingers. Dean thrust his uninjured arm forward and finding soft hair that could only be Sam's. Two more shuffles and Dean was at his brother's side. As Dean reached forward to grab his brother, Dean recoiled his hand again, realizing, horrified, that his brother's back was on fire, presumably only a T-shirt to protect it.

With Sam's beige jacket still balled in his fist, Dean beat the flame, feeling the spread briefly. Dean panicked. He could feel the flame. He could feel the heat from the wall only half a foot away. "Sammy!" Dean shrieked, hysterical. Constantly clouting the flame, Dean sobbed. He grabbed onto Sam's limp wrists with his own wounded one and hauled his brother away from the smouldering wall behind him. And shoving his now aching arm into the formidable flame to join the other, Dean used all his physical and mental will to diminish the flame. "Sammy! Please, no!" Dean screamed in unison with the last dying breath of the witch, "No!"

The roar of the flame surrounding him was too great that Dean never heard any more that his own ragged breathing. However, a hand found his face. Dean started violently. "Sammy?" Dean was unsure. But who else could it be?

Sam's eyes felt heavy, but the pain in his back was too great, and it pulled him back to consciousness. A roaring unlike anything he'd ever heard penetrated his mind. However two shrill screams was what sent him spinning back to reality, and he suddenly remembered where he was. His eyes flew open. Yet the heat in the room and the pain in his back was so intense, he squeezed them shut again. But not before he got a glance of his brother in front of him, and Dean's frantic expression. "Dean." Sam's voice was hoarse... yet he had air! He could actually breathe! He sucked in as much air as possible before coughing sporadically as the heat and smoke that flew into his lungs. His hands flew to his brother's face.

Dean felt Sam coughing and sobbed harder in relief. Thankful that his brother wasn't dying from whatever the witch had done to him and he wasn't currently burning alive. Dean's hands traced over Sam's bare but blistered back, not feeling another lick of flame and wincing in sympathy at the pain Sam must be feeling from the assault. Dean attempted to talk, but found he couldn't even hear his own voice, so he leaned down, finding Sam's face with his chin. "Sammy! We gotta go! The room is on fire!"

Sam wedged his eyes open again, and though his brother's face was blocking much of his view, Sam still saw the room, walls ablaze in an orange villain, the ceiling not denied the fire's wrath. And, close to her alter, the witch lay curled in on herself, her body, her hair, her dress, all engulfed in deep red flame, even as the victim within charred to black.

Sam's hazel eyes found Dean's worried green ones. Yet, his brother's gaze was still unfocused. Sam glanced at the burning witch to make sure she was still there. She was. And Dean was still blind. Sam's eyes watered from a combination was frustration, fear and smoke. That's when Sam recalled the fire raging around them, unconcerned with either brother's emotions, only out for itself, only set to engulf anything in its path. And getting extremely close. Sam yelped when the fire licked at his abused back and he scrambled away, pulling Dean along with him. Sam's back screamed in protest, his broken rib pressing sharply into his already battered lungs, his vision grew black from the bump on his head.

Once again, Dean ended up on Sam's lap, hugged tightly to his chest while Dean struggled not to panic from all the unseen forces and foes around him.

Sam then noticed smoke seeping up through cracks on the very ground they sat on. He grew curious as to how much of the house was on fire and suddenly had no doubt that the ceiling below them was awash with flames as well as he glanced over at the hole in the floor and noticed flames shooting up through it. It would weaken the old wood immensely. The very wood they were huddling on. At the very moment they were safe from much of the flame however, as they sat, wound in a ball, in the middle of the room.

"Dean, we need to go!" Sam hoarsely shouted to the brother trembling in his arms, all the while scanning the room for anyway out. The one window in the room was far too small to get out of.

Sam began to loosen his grip on Dean, but Dean yelped softly and burrowed backward into Sam's chest, pushing the broken rib further into Sam's lung and making Sam cry out. However, it was Dean's inconsistent breaths that reminded Sam of something he should have remembered immediately.

How terribly afraid Dean was of the flame.

Dean had always been afraid of fire. Ever since their mother's death when orange flame engulf their house. Dean had watched as their home had burned, knowing, even at such a young age, that his mother was in there and wasn't coming out. And Hell had brought out the worst of that fear. Dean felt safe enough torching graves. Hell, he probably even enjoyed those. But any sort of huge blaze and Dean would freeze. Sam wasn't particularly fond of fire, but at least he wasn't currently choking from smoke as well as paralysed with fear. Because here they were, in the very definition of a 'huge blaze'.

"Dean! Please! Come on. You're okay!"

Dean whimpered, hearing Sam's shouts. How the hell was he okay? He was stuck in a burning building with his brother with no means of escape. He was slowly building up to hyperventilating, even as he tried to stop breathing all together from the smoke.

"Dean! We have to leave before the floor caves!"

Nothing.

"DEAN!"

Finally, Sam released his grip on Dean entirely and dropped him to the rapidly heating floor, before leaning his own trembling body over Dean's, ignoring the fiery pain shooting up and down his back, and bracing his arms on either side of Dean's head. Dean looked up at him with wide, shining, unseeing eyes.

"I understand you're afraid, Dean. I understand, believe me. But we have to go. Or we'll _both_ be killed! Please," Sam begged, trying to keep his croaking voice as soothing as possible while impressing the urgency of the situation upon Dean.

Just when Sam didn't think Dean would answer and he'd have to keep begging, Dean nodded his head. And Sam noticed Dean struggling to put his fear away and get his game face on. Because it's true. Sam was in the burning building too. And there was no way on God's green Earth that Dean was going to sit by and let Sam die.

Without another word, Sam's arms gave way as the pain in his back became too acute. He collapsed ungracefully on Dean chest. Dean yelped at the sudden, warm weight that he knew could only be his brother. "Sam?" He coughed violently as the smoke got worse. "Sammy!"

"Just weak Dean," Sam managed to whisper in Dean's ear.

Dean sighed and nodded, gently pushing his brother up with him and getting them up off the floor. Sam groaned the whole way up, the pain in his back causing his vision to waver dangerous, making it nearly impossible to see in the smoke-filled room. And his rib only made coughing torture.

Sam was forced to drape an arm over Dean's shoulders to keep from stumbling in pain. Dean did the best he could trying not to irritate Sam's back even more. However, they needed to get out, and Sam needed to walk to do that. So, Dean gripped Sam's waist as low as he could. He still felt Sam's blistered back and cringed when he was forced to rub it, making Sam groan louder. Dean's other, injured arm, was kept straight out so as to avoid running into anything while they walked.

Sam got them going. He directed them toward the door to the room, twisting them sideways so they could slip through the burning frame. The railing outside the room was already burning, as was the the wall on the other side of the hall way. There was barely enough room for one of them to slip through. They shuffled sideways, Dean ahead, but Sam guiding from behind. However, when they reached the stairs... well, there were no stairs. They were engulfed in the red-orange flames, completely blocking their exit. The fire on the railing snapped threateningly at them. Dean backpedalled, feeling the flame so close, then hissed feeling more heat grace his already sweating back.

"We can't get through!" Sam shouted over the roar of destruction. "We have to go back!"

Dean was barely keeping himself together. They needed to get out and now. But their only path out was destroyed. Going back frightened him even more, his nerves tingling in fear. There was no way out of that room either. They were stuck up here. Him and Sam. Sam was going to burn with him. Sam was going to die. Dean stumbled, his legs trembling too much and beginning to give way. Sam cried out when he felt his back bending, going down with Dean.

**To be continued...**

* * *

**A/N:** Like I said, I don't really think Dean's afraid of fire, but it's an interesting notion. I like the idea. Tell me what you think!

And don't worry. Dean will come to his senses!

BTW, sorry about the wait. Hugely busy weekend!


	7. Chapter 7

_Disclaimer: Everything belongs to their respective owners; Eric Kripke, the CW/WB._

**A/N**: The fire's raging and Sam and Dean are trapped. How the hell will they get out of it? Well, that's this chapter. Time for the great escape!

* * *

_Last Chapter:_

_Dean was barely keeping himself together. They needed to get out and now. But their only path out was destroyed. Going back frightened him even more, his nerves tingling in fear. There was no way out of that room either. They were stuck up here. Him and Sam. Sam was going to burn with him. Sam was going to die. Dean stumbled, his legs trembling too much and beginning to give way. Sam cried out when he felt his back bending, going down with Dean._

**Sammy, I Can't See!  
Chapter 7**

Sam's cry set Dean back in motion. They couldn't give up. Dean would never give up on Sam. If he died in here to save Sam, then fine. So be it. Even if it was fire, and Dean could barely breathe at the thought of what was surrounding him - though thankfully he couldn't see it - he could pretend it wasn't there. Long enough to get under control again anyway.

Sam felt Dean straighten, grateful that Dean was managing so well under the circumstances. Doing a quick whirl-around, Sam got them shuffling back to the bedroom. They barely got back before the frame was so thick with flames, it was a wall with no exit even if they wanted to. Trapped thoroughly, Sam stopped. Parts of the floor were caving and fire licked through, creating even more heat, an oven. Sweat poured off Sam and Dean in torrents. The heat and smoke ravaged their lungs, their eyes. Both brothers were wounded, weakened, fearful. They were exhausted, utterly bone-tired. And there was still no sign of escape.

"The hole!" Sam shouted. Dean started fiercely, hyperventilation being put off for the moment to hear his brother. "Dean, the hole! The one in the floor! Come on!" Not even sure if Dean heard him, Sam half stumbled, half dragged his brother toward the huge hole in the floor which was only getting bigger. He looked down it as best as he could. He thought he could see the front door. It too was ablaze, but Sam remembered there being windows down there. Maybe those weren't currently blocked with flame. If they could just get down there. "We'll have to jump!"

"Sam, are you crazy!" Dean croaked.

"Dean, it's the only way. We're trapped up here. Sitting ducks bound for the oven. We can jump and get out."

Dean growled. He was frustrated. That was a long way down. A whole floor down to be precise. And there was no doubt fire down there that Sam wasn't telling him about. And yet...

Dean loosened his grip on Sam, lifting Sam's arm off his shoulders just long enough to shrug out of his leather jacket. Finally, he draped it over Sam's shoulder, wincing as he knew he brushed it over Sam's back.

"Dean, wha-"

"You got nothing to cover you. If we're going to jump, you need some protection." Sam was about to protest when Dean remarked, "Don't you dare argue Sam. Let's go."

Sam was surprised enough that Dean caved so easily when surely his brother was beyond freaked right now, but he didn't dwell as Dean stepped closer to the hole. Sam took control again, already dreading the jump down, but brought them as close to the hole as was safe.

"Dean, do you trust me?"

Dean hesitated only a second, just long enough to wet his mouth and say, "Yes."

Sam readjusted his arm so it was wrapped under Dean's arms, took a single step back before thrusting hard against the ground and leaping into the air just as the ground beneath him and Dean finally crashed down.

They felt the flames along the floor-turned-ceiling reach out to them, trying to embrace them. The boys shot passed them however. Sam barely saw the floor approaching through the smoke. But they both felt it. They crashed to the flame-covered floor, Sam's right leg twisting awkwardly beneath him before he and Dean both landed on the appendage. There was no doubt it was now broken too. Sam had no time to ponder however as Dean started to panic, feeling the flames under them and all around them. Sam looked over his shoulder and saw they missed the burning bed by mere inches. He pulled them away from it and, with Dean's help, they got themselves off the ground, the leather jacket nearly falling off, but Sam wasn't letting that burn here as he snatched it up and slipped it over both his and Dean's shoulders.

However, they were still trapped. They were surrounded by walls of flames, the whole blockade near the door was alight, the already burnt rooms were re-burning. The window was further away then Sam remembered, and there was no way they could get to it. They were now trapped in an even worse position, the ceiling, the floor, the walls, the blockade, the door, all burning away, leaving them in the centre of it all. And Dean was full-on hyperventilating, tears cascading down his face. Even through the haze, Sam could see Dean's anguish.

Sam had to lean even more weight on his brother than before. Oddly though, the added weight seemed to centre Dean again, allowing him to remember who he was currently clinging to. "Sam!" The name felt good on his dry tongue.

"Hold on, Dean. Just hold on," Sam managed to say through ragged pained breaths. They had to hurry. Death from smoke inhalation was the most common in a fire. The brothers were well on their way.

Sam whipped his head around, looking for any sort of reprieve from their burning cage. Suddenly a huge crack sounded through the air, louder than the raging mass of heat around them. Sam's body shot toward the sound and Dean almost fell face-first into the flame. Sam kept them dancing on the floor, already feeling their pant legs catching. But the sound elicited new hope in Sam.

It had been the door. The hinges, strong but old, holding up the door, alerting their enemy last night when they had tried to run, was now their saving grace as Sam saw the door teetering on an edge, ready to fall over. "Trust me," Sam said to Dean, not managing more than a whisper with his abused lungs. But Dean tensed. And Sam, with as much agility as possibly, leapt into the air, leaning his entire body mass on Dean while bringing his uninjured leg up, shooting it out, effectively knocking the door off its balance and out to the great outdoors, to freedom.

Dean had suddenly felt Sam's entire body mass on him. He leaned forward to keep them upright and when Sam's feet made contact with something, it was all Dean could do to keep them upright and not hurtling backward into the blazing blockade.

Sam came back down, crying out in pain when his foot met the floor and his back bent to relieve the leg pain. But they now had an exit, and that's all that matter.

The sudden burst of air from outdoors had raised the fire to a new potential and it towered around them, an angry army of heat and power. And Sam ran, Dean following silently behind.

Even the front porch was on fire, the railings had already taken all they could take and had collapsed on the grass. The old wooden bench was only on two legs. The stairs weren't there, buried in flame. It didn't matter. Sam gripped Dean's form tighter and sent them flying forward with another leap. Again, he landed on his ankle when they landed on the other side of the flames from the stairs. He winced, but the sudden rush of cool air had cleared Dean's head and he took control from there. He grabbed onto Sam's shaking form, also grabbing onto the leather jacket once again slipping and bent down to beat the flames off their ankles. Sam and Dean were both forced to abandon their melting boots. Dean felt around, making sure the flames were entirely out, while Sam kept a solid grip on Dean's bent form. While feeling, Dean felt Sam's ankle at an awkward angle and knew it was both broken and burned.

But they were safe. They were out of the house. As Dean stood back up, he hacked as the clean air officially invaded his lungs. It was dizzying. Sam wasn't fairing much better as he felt like he was coughing up his lungs while clutching his chest, hoping to pull the broken rib out. His back ached, his lungs ached, his leg throbbed, his head hurt, his eyes watered, but still, looking up at the house with flames shooting out windows and broken walls, Sam breathed a sign of relief.

"Would you look at that," he managed to whisper.

There was silence, until Dean sobbed, "I can't. I still can't see Sammy."

Sam turned to look at Dean under his arm. There were tears in his eyes. His face was red and covered in smoke ash, except where tears were sweeping the soot away. But there was still an unmistakeable blankness on Dean's face. Sam glanced back up at the burning house, fear retaking his heart. The witch was dead. This should all be over. They had killed the source. And yet...

As Sam glanced back at Dean as he came to a grim realization that it may not be reversible, that it may indeed be permanent. That his brother may actually be stuck with this curse, this darkness that he can't escape. He'd have to quit hunting. He couldn't take care of himself. He couldn't take care of Sam. He's be miserable, stuck in an unseeing world. Having people stare at him, some mock him. All the while, not even being able to see enough to run away. His brother was handicap in the worst way, in an evil world still crawling with things that wanted revenge on the Winchesters. His brother was blind. Completely and utterly-

"Wait, Sam!" Sam's watering eyes travelled to Dean's green orbs. "I think... I..."

"Dean?" Sam whispered throatily.

"I see shades." Sam stopped breathing. A crack issued forth from the house, louder than the front door, and Sam witnessed the roof cave into the witch's bedroom / alter room. Dean flinched. But even as the crack thundered out, Dean's vision flashed brilliant white with it. He felt power encasing his head suddenly. Like a magical bubble wrapped tightly around him was slowly wavering with each crash of the house, each piece of wood burned to dust. The more the house burned, the more Dean could see. No colours yet. Shades. Blacks and whites and greys. The images were slow; they blurred. But there was an undeniable white blur right in front of him reaching into the darker sky.

The area of the dining / living room collapsed with the strain of holding up too much with fire weakening it's support. Dean's vision flashed again. He saw red radiate from the base of the huge white blur. The bubble's power wavered even more. Everything was shades of red them. Lights and darks. Pinks and maroons. Everything coming into sharper focus.

"Dean," Sam whispered, terrified of what Dean may be seeing.

But Dean smiled. His first true smile since last night. As yellow flashed into his vision creating hues of orange as well, Dean turned to Sam away from the blaze of red, orange, and yellow ahead of him.

Sam's face was mostly a white, mixed lightly with red. Not quite the colour it should be. His eyes were a shiny yellow rather than their hazel. But it was Sam, absolutely no doubt.

Finally blue added to Dean's colour palette as the hallway, kitchen, and empty room in the house could no longer take the assault and collapsed into a heap, smoke billowing toward the sky.

And Sam's eyes returned to normal as the blue created shades of purple and green, and them all combining to create the hazel of Sam's eyes, and the brown of soot covering Sam's cheeks, and the nose almost going black from the soot. His normally soft locks were matted and dirty. Blood was hidden under the soot that originated around his brother's nostrils. His lips were severely chapped, But it was Sam, alive, in front of him.

"Sammy."

Dean would later say that it was the smoke that got to him as more tears ran down his face and he reached his uninjured hand to Sam's shaking face and cupped his cheeks lightly.

Sam tilted his head into Dean's hand, almost too exhausted to hold it up himself. And his relief at seeing Dean's eyes flitting over Sam's features was almost too much to bear.

"Dean."

"You're beautiful." Yep, Dean said it. Really, it only slipped out. He wouldn't normally sound so sappy and un-Dean-like. But really, he was honestly starting to doubt whether he'd ever see his brother's face again. And it truly was the most beautiful thing Dean had ever seen. Not that he'd ever admit _that _much to Sam.

Sam's eyes widened fractionally when those words slipped out of Dean's mouth. Maybe Dean had a concussion from earlier. But he was too tired, and, frankly, too overjoyed to care. Sam never realized how much he missed his big brother just looking him, even with eyes filled with tears. At least Dean was looking at him, not through him. And Sam dearly missed the love he could feel coming from Dean's eyes then. He knew Dean always loved him, but this? This was Dean. This was normal. This was right.

It was with Sam's own vision blacking, his head getting dizzy from pain and not a spell, that found Sam's head falling forward to land against Dean's forehead. Dean didn't pull away at first, just stared deeply into Sam's dark orbs, rejoicing in the range of colours reflecting in Sam's eyes.

However, it was Sam's wheezing that snapped Dean back to the here and now. Sam's weakened body was slumping forward and Dean grabbed a hold of him, supporting the entirety of his weight while Sam barely managed to keep a loose grip of Dean's bicep. Sam's forehead slid off Dean's and onto his brother's shoulder.

"I've got you kid. We're getting out of here."

Sam slipped a hand into his brother's jean pocket, retrieving the car keys and made their way toward the car, which, as Dean would complain later, was dangerously close to the collapsing house.

Dean manoeuvred Sam into the passenger seat, whispering encouragement and sorrys repeatedly until Sam was fully inside. Sam kept himself as still as possible and as straight as possible. He found it difficult to touch the seat of the car let alone lean back into without his back throwing a fit and his rib bit into his lung if he leaned forward. Various parts of him were pulsing with pain, not least of all, his nose the witch had broken.

Dean drove like a maniac, even while his vision settled back into place. He often found the car drifting onto the shoulder and the road blurred and trees shimmered. But he trusted his car, and his instincts, to tell him when he was getting to far over. Dean was also tempted to drive straight to the motel. The boys had the materials necessary to deal with broken bones and even burned from fires. But Sam's breathing had Dean worried. Sam looked like he had a broken rib and his face told him just how much the smoke was killing Sam. No, he needed professionals to deal with that one. So, Dean headed to the hospital, which, as was habit, Dean made a point of memorizing where it was when they first got to town.

It was 20 minutes later, Dean's continued encouragement for Sam to keep breathing and keep his eyes open, and two screaming fire engines going the opposite direction followed by 4 police cars, that Dean finally rolled into the hospital parking lot, brakes protesting loudly at the force necessary to keep the big girl from careening into the side of the building.

"Help! Please, my brother can't breathe!"

In the quiet environment, away from the rage of the flame, Dean realized fully how weak his own voice was, how frantic his own breathing was. But the nurse's station was suddenly alive with activity.

"Doctor!" One nurse shouted.

"Get a gurney!" Another followed.

"A crash cart just in case. He doesn't look like he's breathing!" The doctor rushed over, checking Sam's pulse while he was placed onto an awaiting gurney. Dean wanted to puke when he saw one nurse in pink holding two paddles connecting to a defibrillator. He suddenly felt empty when his brother's warmth left his grasp. Then he was assaulted by a horde of nurses himself.

"Sir? Are you hurt? Are injured sir? Can you tell us what happened? Get him an oxygen mask. He's hyperventilating!"

Dean collapsed onto the other gurney they brought over. He was just too exhausted to stand anymore. He lay his head down as the oxygen mask was pulled over his head. And, as he gasped desperately for air, Dean asked, "How's my brother? How's Sam?" before he passed into darkness.

**To be continued...**

* * *

**A/N:** Neither brother is in good shape, are they? How damaged should I really make them? Let me know!

BTW, I have a rather important poll about this story. Let me know whether Sam should find out about Dean and Harvey, or not. Let me know in a review or in the poll on my profile!


	8. Chapter 8

_Disclaimer: Everything belongs to their respective owners; Eric Kripke, the CW/WB._

**A/N**: Hospital scene here. I'm not a doctor, so forgive any misinformation. I, however, do enjoy a little hurt!Winchester. Who's with me?

Warning: A _vague _hint of rape at the beginning. Nothing graphic.

* * *

_Last Chapter:_

_"Sir? Are you hurt? Are injured sir? Can you tell us what happened? Get him an oxygen mask. He's hyperventilating!"_

_Dean collapsed onto the other gurney they brought over. He was just too exhausted to stand anymore. He lay his head down as the oxygen mask was pulled over his head. And, as he gasped desperately for air, Dean asked, "How's my brother? How's Sam?" before he passed into darkness._

**Sammy, I Can't See!  
Chapter 8**

"No. No please. Stop. I... s- stop. H- Harvey."

"Come on, Dean. You know you like it."

"No, please. I don't. Please stop. I- Just please!"

"Dean. Come on. Come on."

"No, no, no, no, no. I don't want-"

"Come on."

"It hurts."

"I know, kid. It'll pass."

"Please!"

"Come on, Dean. Wake up now. It's okay."

"Wha-" Dean's eyes slid open.

"Welcome back kid." Bright light hit Dean's eyes, behind which was the silhouette of a man.

"Wha-" Dean tried again.

"No, don't talk. You've already screamed yourself hoarse. Just take it easy." The light in his eyes finally went away. A pen light Dean presumed. Then he almost sat bolt upright when he remembered where he was and why he was there.

"Sam!"

"Easy kid. Take it easy. Your friend's fine."

"B- brother," Dean stuttered out, but he let himself be pushed back into the bed.

"Your brother's fine," the doctor corrected. "He woke up earlier asking for you."

Dean started to say something. But the doctor shook his head sharply. "Get some rest. Your brother will still be here when you wake up."

Dean started to protest. "I need to see him. See how he is," his voice was barely audible.

The doctor still caught the words and shook his head in the negative. "When you wake up later will be soon enough. You have severe smoke inhalation and I don't want you stressing yourself."

Dean scowled as best as he could through a cloud of headaches.

"Dean, can you tell me what this is about?" the doctor asked lightly almost scared, indicating Dean's bandaged wrist. He didn't clearly remember that wound. In the haze of his nightmares, the fire and then the escape, the exact reason behind the wound was lost on him. "It's cut vertically." The doctor was hisitant with his words.

_The witch_, Dean's mind finally supplied. The blood ritual, making you kill this town. And the doctor... Geez, the doc thought Dean-

"Not me," he managed, severely regretting even trying to explain.

The doctor nodded.

Dean opened his mouth again. He wasn't suicidal damn it! However, he saw the look on the young doctor's face and promptly snapped it shut. The doctor didn't want him talking. That much was clear. His face also indicating he didn't believe Dean to be in any immediate danger of killing himself. At least he wasn't getting tied down.

"Sam," Dean slurred.

"Enough. I promise you can see you brother. First, get some rest."

Fine then. Dean would get to his brother in his own way.

The doctor smiled as Dean settled back down. He had been worried about both boys. He'd spent hours resetting Sam's broken bones, which included his ankle, two ribs, and a broken nose. He also spent the time tending to the young man's burns. In some places there were third degree burns. But very minor ones. The doctor was please, or as pleased as he could be in the situation, that mostly Sam had sustained second degree burns covering his entire back and first degree on his feet, and that both, with proper care would heal moderately well. The smoke inhalation was another matter. Sam's punctured lung made breathing extremely difficult for the young man. And although Sam hadn't needed the defibrillator, he had to be coaxed many times to keep breathing. Healing the scar tissue in the boy's lungs would certainly take a while and it wouldn't be a pleasant experience.

The doctor, although, after checking Dean out only found moderate burns on his feet, his arm sliced open and his face a little battered, along with equally painful smoke inhalation as his brother as well as severe blood loss, Dean was showing different symptoms then his brother. The most prominent of them being nightmares. While only here for a few hours, Dean had had to be woken three times from various nightmares. One involved Sam, another one Dean screamed about a witch and fire, and the last one had contained a man named Harvey. The nightmares were worrying, especially if Dean insisted on screaming and hurting his already damaged lungs and trachea. Not to mention that slash on his wrist. Hopefully the two weren't connected.

Both boys would need to be kept in constant watch if they were going to recover quickly. Which was why the doctor was so startled when he walked into Dean's room 45 minutes later only to discover the young man's bed empty.

...

Dean had slipped out of the room, waiting only a few minutes for the nurses' voices to fade down the hall. The hospital gown he was wearing was a little revealing, but as least he had a decent pair of blue hospital pants on. He trudged down the halls, walking as normally as possible - which was extremely difficult considering each breath caused a wave of dizziness - when he passed any hospital staff, stopping the first one he saw, asking them to direct him to his brother's room – under the name Sam Page, which was thankfully the only credit card in his wallet so as not to give too many false names.

Although he had his sight back, for which Dean felt eternally grateful, he wasn't really looking at his surrounding. He just chanted over and over the orders the nurse had given him to get to Sam's room. Turn right, down the hall. Elevator up two levels to Intensive Care Unit. Immediate right, down hallway, halfway. Room 412.

Finally, he reached room 412. Or more like a sectioned-off, yellow curtains surrounding the area. Dean pulled the back and gasped lightly as the sight of his brother curled on his side, his whole back was gauzed over. His nose had been straightened and bandaged, the blood cleared away, but the bruises standing out in stark contrast to his brother's pale face. There was also an oxygen mask over his mouth, however it had partly shifted over in Sam's sleep. Dean righted it, then stood still, standing over Sam, not sure what to do now that he was here. Unfortunately, the walk up here had hurt his lungs badly, and he was once more wheezing through clenched teeth. Not to mention his vision felt as black as the blind - and he would know. But Sam was in worse shape because of Dean.

If only he'd stayed behind, or in the car, like Sam had insisted. His brother then wouldn't have needed to save him thereby not getting burned by having to deal with Dean's blindness and his intense fear of fire.

Dean had barely felt like he was under control back at the house. His heart was frozen in fear. Panic was over-riding almost every instinct. Only Sam had kept him moving. If Sam hadn't of been there, Dean would have curled in a tight ball and just let the flames take him. Then again, if Dean had been strong enough, that situation may not have arisen.

"Don't blame yourself."

Dean's eyes snapped to Sam's face, where his brother was looking at him with one eye open and a soft smile on his face. He hadn't even realized he said the last part out loud.

"I let you go." Sam started hacking, the effort to speak was too much.

"Easy Sammy," Dean whispered, snapping out of his reverie and stepping into big brother mode. "Just take a deep breath." Sam did. "And release it slow. Nice and easy." The oxygen mask fogged as nurses from the nearby station came in, ready to deal with their patient with damaged lungs. They walked in only to see their patient being gently coaxed to breathe normally by a handsome, young man speaking softly to him.

One nurse stayed while the others went back to their station. She quietly checked over Sam, listening to his lungs and noticing nothing abnormal. Without a word, she left the two men alone.

"How're you feeling," Dean asked, hoping Sam would use small words, but needing the reassurance.

"Peachy," Sam breathed evenly. Dean smiled softly at Sam when he noticed Sam attempt a smirk. "You ... see?"

"Yeah. Back to full working order," Dean blinked dramatically but replied gently so as not to disturb his own lungs.

Sam sighed contently, his eyes drifting close. Another smile worked it's way on Dean's face. Sam's breathing evened out as he fell into another sleep. Dean quietly pulled over a hard, plastic chair to Sam's side. He wasn't leaving if he had anything to say about it.

"Mr. Plant. You can't be wondering all over the hospital with your lungs in this condition!"

Dean looked over at his doctor and gave him a hard look which the doctor interpreted as, "You try and move me and I'll fight back." The last thing the doctor wanted was this young man injuring his lungs in a struggle.

So, the young doctor sighed. "At least let me check your lungs. Then could I at least roll another bed in here and be assured you'll at least try to get some rest?"

Dean looked the doctor over sharply, determining him to be well meaning. At least he was offering to let Dean stay with his brother. The least he could do was let the doctor do his job. So, finally Dean nodded.

"Good." The doctor came over and promptly stuck a stethoscope to Dean's lungs, telling him to breath slowly and deeply. Dean did so. The doctor finally nodded after checking both lungs thoroughly. Then he left, presumably to get that bed for Dean.

Dean looked back at Sam and started softly when he realized Sam had grabbed onto his hand and was squeezing it gently. Dean curled his fingers around Sam's hand, lightly running a thumb over Sam's knuckles.

Dean heard a rattling outside the curtain and two nurses and the doctor appeared, rolling in another white bed identical to Sam's. Dean stood and one nurse removed the chair he'd been sitting on. The bed was rolled in behind him. The doctor ushered Dean to sit down, then lie down. He insisted Dean lay on his back to keep his lungs unobstructed. However, neither the doctor nor Dean mentioned Dean holding Sam's hand. Dean continued to clutch it, never once ceasing rubbing Sam's knuckles. The bed was pushed close enough so as not to be uncomfortable for both his patients. They gave Dean his own oxygen mask and set up a new blood transfusion for him.

Finally content, the doctor and two nurses left.

Again, the doctor came back frequently, the first time finding Dean staring at Sam's still face. He didn't disturb either one that first time, letting them have the moment to themselves. The next time he came back, both brothers were sleeping contently, even Dean, who had been previously plagued by nightmares. Now though, he laid still, breathing evenly, still connected to his brother. Their hands were unmoving, yet neither looked like they would relinquish their hold any time soon.

Over the next 5 hours, the doctor and a couple nurses checked the boys over. It was determined that they were victims of the fire that had overtaken a historical house that was said to have been a home to witches. The doctor didn't believe in witches. He was a science man.

The police were itching to question the boys about what happened at that house. However the doctor wasn't going to risk his patients further injury, so he promptly said, "You'll have to wait until they are fit to speak at all," before spinning and stalking off from the maltempered cop.

The cop snarled about coddling, and strutted out of the hospital, intending to wait until one of two things happened: one, the doctor finally let him speak to his suspects, or two, the cost was clear enough to sneak in and speak to them. Which ever came first.

The boys woke around 8 o'clock that evening. The doctor came up just as Sam blinked blearily over at his brother whole smiled back at him.

"Dinner time." Dean glanced at the doctor, swallowed softly, and groaned, before swallowing again from the slight tickle in his throat. The doctor chuckled mildly. "I know your throats hurt. But it would really be good to keep food in your stomachs. We can start off with some lukewarm broth." Both Sam and Dean looked rather unimpressed with anything going in their mouths, even down their throat and not their abused lungs. "Just try it. Can't do it, and we'll move on to ice-cream."

Dean grinned broadly.

"Yeah, that's always a fan favourite." The doctor chuckled again and walked out. It had been a long day worrying about those two and whether they would fully recover, checking to make sure there was no further damage to their lungs that they needed to worry about. After 5 hours of monitoring, however, the doctor deemed the boys lucky. He knew, from multiple fires around town, that the greatest killer in a fire is not being burnt but from smoke and heat inhalation. Those boys were in a blazing inferno, if the cops' reports were accurate, and it seemed that they would be fine, with very minimal scarring.

Dean's grin was contagious as Sam adopted a similar one onto his face. It certainly felt good to see Dean smile in a completely Dean-like way and not one of those half smiles intended to make Sam feel better. This natural grin worked so much better on Sam.

Dean looked over, saw Sam smiling at Dean, and quirked an eyebrow at his brother. Sam blinked slowly once. Dean interpreted that to mean, "Because I love you." Dean shook his head and turned away, the grin not quite leaving his face.

Dean felt a tug at his hand, and he noticed that, even after all these hours, Sam hadn't let go. Dean scanned his little brother and observed Sam's eyes flicking insistently to Dean's face, to his eyes.

"Fine," Dean breathed. He couldn't make a proper sound if he tried right now. But he knew what Sam meant. Eyes. Sight. Could he really see. "How're you?" Dean swallowed the cough that threatened his way up even as he merely breathed the words.

Sam's smile grew, then he opened his mouth and breathed his own mocking, "Fine."

"Jerk," Dean muttered. Sam glared hard, which wasn't very effective considering half his face was bandaged. But Dean got the message again and corrected himself with, "Bitch." Sam smirked.

Dean snorted just as the doctor walked in with two white bowls on a tray. He raised his eyebrows at both his patients. However, true to their sore throats, both boys gave him only identical grins. He shook his head affectionately. He'd be the first to admit those two had grown on him. He only ever dreamed of a bond like that with his own brother. Though, he often wondered why they had two different last names... Shaking his head again, he placed the tray on a nearby table and grabbed the first one, placing it gently on Dean's lap and only letting go when he was sure his patient had a good grip on it with his free hand.

The doctor didn't go back for the other bowl however. He turned to Sam instead and said, "We can tilted you onto your back partly. You're on high enough painkillers that there should be minor pain." It was toned as a question. Eyes flicking once toward Dean, Sam nodded lightly. The doctor nodded as well and moved forward to help Sam sit up. Yet he heard Dean shift behind him. Glancing around, the doctor noticed Dean hadn't made a move toward his broth yet. He was staring hard at Sam and almost glaring at the doctor's advance toward him. He also hadn't released Sam's hand.

"Dean, eat up." Worried eyes met the doctors. He smiled reassuringly. Dean suddenly twitched and his gaze returned to Sam. The doctor looked at Sam as well and noticed Sam's small twitch of his lips and a look the doctor couldn't perceive cross his eyes. In his peripheral, the doctor witnessed a different look flash across Dean's face. Sam twitched again. And Dean flashed.

The doctor stood between his two patients, witnessing something so great, yet terribly disappointed he couldn't interpret it. It was complete understanding between two people who couldn't even talk. It was astounding, watching them communicate, full sentences passing through the empty air between them. The doctor shivered under the power of their relationship. And, too soon for him, the moment passed and Dean softly let Sam's hand drop.

"Doc?" the doctor heard Dean whisper.

The doctor blinked once, twice, three times, willing his breath to come back. Finally, he was back in the moment. He swallowed hard before nodding and turning fully to Sam. He couldn't say anything as he gently twisted Sam onto his back, making the move as painless as possible. Sam still cringed every once in a while. But he took it all silently. Finally Sam was on his back propped against three white pillows. He was higher than Dean, with only two under him. But Dean did a once over of Sam and conceded that he was probably comfortable enough. Still without a word, the doctor handed Sam a bowl of soup. Sam signalled a thanks.

Sam lightly glowered at the broth, but he knew he had to eat. So, he took his white plastic spoon with a bit of broth in it, placed it in his mouth and swallowed before he could think of it. He grimaced, expecting a wave of pain to hit him. But other than the initial tingle of swallowing, the soup went down without incident. He sighed happily. Then he felt a tingle along his spine. He glanced over at Dean. And he smiled lightly. Although Dean had made a show of stirring his soup, Sam had no doubt he was secretly watching Sam out of the corner of his eye. He was worried about him. Sam had gotten that much from their 'conversation' earlier.

True, Dean had been watching Sam. He worried about how Sam's back was fairing. His ribs. His lungs. He worried like a big brother should. Sue him.

He also noticed when Sam noticed him watching. Finally, Dean risked a glance up to meet his brother's gaze.

The doctor caught another look pass across Sam's face. He waited, tense for Dean's reaction., truly wondering what Sam was 'saying'.

"Eat," Sam had 'said'. Without looking at the bowl even. Sam knew Dean understood.

Without another look from Dean however, the other brother merely muttered, "Bitch," again before turning to his broth, giving it an identical glower as Sam's and took a mouthful.

Sam smiled again, but went back to his own bowl.

The doctor only stood openly gawking at the brothers. It was a sight to behold, the two of them together. It was nothing he had ever seen before. Certainly something he'd never had with _his _older brother. He left quickly before he made a spectacle of himself.

**To be continued...**

* * *

**A/N:** So, I decided the boys would be wounded, but not seriously enough to have to write another four chapters of hospital scene. That's always boring. So, it's the recovery here. And what about that cop eh? Let me know!

BTW, Should Sam find out about Dean and Harvey? Answer in my poll or in a review (if you haven't already!) Lots of people are saying yes. Can someone tell me _why _they said yes?


	9. Chapter 9

_Disclaimer: Everything belongs to their respective owners; Eric Kripke, the CW/WB._

**A/N**: Got some more info on the doctor in this chapter, since many of you expressed interest in him. This chapter's not much, yet enjoy anyway!

* * *

_Last Chapter:_

_Without another look from Dean however, the other brother merely muttered, "Bitch," again before turning to his broth, giving it an identical glower as Sam's and took a mouthful._

_Sam smiled again, but went back to his own bowl._

_The doctor only stood openly gawking at the brothers. It was a sight to behold, the two of them together. It was nothing he had ever seen before. Certainly something he'd never had with __his _older brother. He left quickly before he made a spectacle of himself.

**Sammy, I Can't See!  
Chapter 9**

The brothers ate in silence. Which was all they could do because although the soup felt nice against their throats, their tracheae were still too damaged to do too much extensive talking.

With the broth gone, Dean got twitchy. He never had liked hospitals. They made him nervous. Too confining. To many cops and security guards around. Too many memories of his father or Sammy being grievously injured in them. No. On a whole, Dean avoided hospitals. Although their doctor was nice enough. It took a while, but Dean finally learned his name was Bradley Summers. He was young, handsome enough, and he genuinely seemed like he wanted to help Sam and Dean, and not just in the regular way doctors bustle around from patient to patient.

Sam was agreeing with Dean's thoughts on their doctor. He seemed nice. He never really asked too many personal questions, except for when he asked how the brothers seemed to know what the other was thinking at anyone time. And to the utter frustration and fascination of Dr. Summers, Dean gave Sam and meaningful look which Sam returned and they both turned toward the doctor at the exact same time and smirked at him with the same smirk. It drove him mad.

He had shaken his head in exasperation and made to walk out of their curtained section. He stopped just short of the curtain however to mutter a quick, "Don't even think about getting out of bed Dean."

Dean's eyes widened and he audibly groaned and slumped back into his pillows. How had that confounded doctor known what he was thinking? Well, maybe it was the frequent twitching and shifting about. Anyone with two eyes could tell Dean was antsy.

Really, all Dean cared about was Sam getting better. It was a day and a half before Sam was able to get a whole, coherent thought out without choking on it. Dean had smirked happily from behind his hand, at which Sam promptly threw a pillow at his brother. Just then, Dean's cellphone rang from beside him. The call display told him it was Bobby calling... again...

_Flashback_

The doctor walked in with dessert, plain, old, boring, never original, but oh so sweet vanilla ice-cream. Thank God for that rich, sweet treat. For Dean wasn't about to admit it, but both his throat and lungs were tingling. At least the ice-cream would work to sooth one of them. When Dr. Summers handed the boys their respective bowls, resetting the slipping pillows so Sam was more upright and less hunched, he then handed Dean a cellphone and said, "Someone named Bobby Singer has been calling insistently and wouldn't listen when a nurse tried to talk to him. Maybe you could calm mystery man."

Dean grinned and happily grabbed his phone. He hit speed dial 3 and the phone rang. Only one ring in and Bobby's gruff voice cut across the line. "Hullo? Dean?"

"Yeah," Dean breathed. He took a spoonful of ice-cream to cool is mouth and throat. It even seemed to effect his trachea, oddly enough.

"Damn it kid. How are you? Sam said you'd gone missing. Then I couldn't get a hold of Sam. And a nurse answered your phone, saying something about a fire. Dammit boy, what the hell have you two gotten into this time! Should I come down?"

Dean smirked at the old man on the line, feeling extremely contented to hearing his pseudo-father's voice. He sent a quick look to Dr. Summers, and even he, in his inability to read the looks between Sam and Dean, understood the request for privacy. He nodded and slipped out of the curtains.

"Bobby," Dean whispered. The line fell silent as Bobby waited to hear Dean's strained voice. "We're okay." Dean sent a fleeting look toward Sam who nodded. "Burnt the witch. House c-caught f-flame." The 'k' sound scratched Dean's throat even through the whispering and Dean forced another spoonful to ice-cream down his throat to dissuade the tickle to turn into a cough.

"You two are okay?"

"Sam got some nasty burns." He couldn't suppress the cough this time from the tickle of the 'g' sound. Then Dean grimaced when he remembered the wounds on Sam's delicate back. "Maybe if I hadn't burnt her-"

"Dean!" Sam hissed, cringing from the effort.

Bobby still managed to hear Sam though, when he said, "Kid's right. She needed to die. You got your sight back?"

Dean nodded automatically, adding, "Yeah. Only, it came back-" Dean cleared his throat from the new 'k' sound. "-after the house burned. Not h-her."

Dean coughed, all the while hoping no one was on the other side of the curtain listening in. There was no explaining this conversation away.

"The house? Hmm." Bobby let Dean suffer in silence, before he finally continued his thought. "I wonder if it wasn't the witch's power that actually needed to burn. And not her body herself."

Dean quirked an eyebrow. Sam's own eyebrows furrowed as he wondered what their friend was saying. Dean turned down the volume then put it on speaker phone.

"I had told Sam about the witch's power actually being infused with the house. That the house may, in essence, hold a part of her."

Dean's head shot up to glare at Sam for not having been told this earlier. Sam blushed lightly then shrugged apologetically.

"And that means..." Dean asked.

"That in order to break her spell, and break her, her house needed to burn."

"Yeah. But when I flamed her, the walls behind me caught instantly." Clearing his throat Dean said hurriedly, "No way fire can move that fast, even if I aimed at the wall." Dean hacked, trying desperately to suppress it so as not to attract any outside attention.

Sam winced in sympathy for what Dean was feeling. He knew they needed to be quiet. He also knew that the damn tickle in his throat didn't ever really go away. Just got irritated really fast.

"Hmm," Bobby hummed again.

"Bobby," Dean whispered, exasperated.

"Look boys, I don't know anything for sure. There's not much on 300-year-old witched, let alone people surviving encounters with them. Let me do some research and I'll get back to you."

Dean grunted his acceptance before Bobby hung up the phone, Dean not far after. Then, without a moment's hesitation, Dean dug into the ice-cream, praying for the relief only the sinfully sweet dessert could bring. He sighed blissfully as the ice-cream streamed past his throat, cooling as it went, and dragging away the damn tickle. "Perfect," Dean muttered.

_End Flashback_

"Bobby, it's been a whole day. Where've you been?" He turned the phone on speaker once more, on minimum volume.

"Don't talk to me like that boy! I've been busy. Other hunter in trouble."

"He all right?" Dean asked, truly worried about one of his own.

"Yeah, shifter got away, but I got some others to help him."

"Damn."

"He'll be okay. He's young. But he's got a good eye for the hunt." Dean sighed. "You're sounding better."

"Yeah, we are. Just waiting for the go ahead from the doc and we'll be out of here."

"Good. Well, I managed a bit more research. It was nothing more I didn't already know really. The witch did have part of her soul in the house. That's why when the house burned, as well as her body, you got your sight back. All of her powers, her strengths, were destroyed. However, as to why the house caught flame when the witch did... It seems simply because the main part of her soul was in her body. So, whatever happened to the bigger soul happened to the rest of her soul. You burn her, you burn her house. It's a perfect connection."

Dean sighed again. This time it was from contentment. He muttered, "It wasn't my fault," before falling silent again.

"Of course it wasn't your fault Dean," Sam whispered to his brother, worried etching his entire face.

Depressed, Dean whispered, "I thought I set the house on fire. I thought I almost got you killed."

Sam grinned lightly. "Not your fault."

Dean nodded appreciatively.

Bobby then asked, "Are you boys gonna stop here for a while. R 'n R and all?"

Sam nodded and began to say yes, when Dean interrupted and said, "We will. We just need to make one stop first."

Sam looked at Dean curiously, the question clearly written on his face. Dean looked at him, but didn't acknowledge the questioning look at all. If it all worked out, Sam would never know why Dean needed to make this one detour.

"All right. Just don't get into anymore trouble on the way here, ya idjits."

"You know us."

"Yeah. You two are Magnetic Souths for danger! See you in a few days?"

"A few," Dean agreed, abruptly shutting the cell phone.

One glance at Sam told Dean his brother was still questioning what this other thing Dean needed to do was. Dean, however, kept his face completely lacking any clue and gave Sam an innocent look instead. Sam finally sighed in irritation. Let Dean keep his secrets. Sam would find out when they got there...

Not if Dean could help it...

...

"Well, good news across the board. Both of your lungs are healing fantastically. You boys are extremely lucky. Sam, your back will also heal well, with only minimal scarring, mostly on your mid-back where the fire seemed to be the worst. Dean, your wrist will heal almost entirely. You'll have full use of it soon enough. There may or may not be a scar, but considering the delicate nature of that particular skin, there will probably be minor scarring. It may easily be mistaken as a vein though, so there should be no worries. Sam, your ankle was reset in time, without further damage to it... Although the aggravating manner in which it was treated after being hurt..." The doctor tutted. Sam blushed remembering how many times he'd re-landed on it. "The swelling on your nose is already going down. There should be no disfiguration from that. Also the burns each of you sustained on your legs will eventually heal completely. In all, you'll be fine."

Dean and Sam smiled appreciatively at the doctor. At the simultaneously similar smiles, Dr. Summers shook his head and walked out on their curtained off section. The one thing the boys liked most about Dr. Summers? He didn't question all the other scars he no doubt found all over them. Whatever his reasons were, both Dean and Sam were thankful and completely grateful to that young man.

The doctor returned shortly after that discussion with a clear scowl on his face. "There's a cop here, insisting that he talk to you. I can't hold him off any longer considering you're well enough to talk-" Dr. Summers barely got the words out of his mouth before a young man, shorter than Dr. Summers, less lanky and more built, with light stubble on his face and sneer on his face directed toward Dr. Summers, a cop walked in who was strikingly familiar to Sam's eyes. And when he spoke, Dean instantly remembered who he was as well.

"You!" Dean thundered, already his throat getting aggravated.

"Ah, dumb and dumber," the cop muttered almost inaudibly. Of course, everyone within the curtained area heard anyway.

"You know these guys?" Dr. Summers asked the cop.

However, it was Sam that answered. With a defined growl in his voice, he said, "Yeah. Oh yeah. We saw him at breakfast two days ago."

Dr. Summers could almost feel the tension in the room. Sparks were flying between his patients and the cop. Evidently, this was not where he wanted to be right now. "I'll just give you a few minutes," he said uncertainly. Of course, he wasn't going to go far...

The other three occupants of the room didn't even acknowledge the doctor. Passing through the curtains, he lightly said, "Be nice to them Richard."

The room was silent while all three men silently glared at each other.

"What are you doing here?" Dean finally asked, keeping his voice as low as possibly, even as he sat up a little straighter.

"Doing my job. You two were part of that fire up at the witch's house. I know you were. First you," nodding his head toward Dean, "Make a spectacle on yourself choking on your own food." Dean sneered. "And now you're both involved in a local fire. You boys are officially suspects."

"You're a cop?" Sam asked, eyes wide, voice still low.

The cop smirked malevolently.

"You got a problem with handicaps, officer Rick?" Dean asked, put extra force on the 'k'.

Officer Richard said nothing, smartly. Sam's fists trembled beside him where he longed to jump up and punch the guy for mocking Dean at the restaurant that first morning. Dean wasn't far behind Sam on the anger scale. The man's a cop, yet he frequented restaurants, picking fights with people who can't defend themselves and enjoyed it. Dean may not be blind anymore, but the cop was still looking at Dean like he was a child that needed to be scolded.

"What happened to your sight?" the cop asked suddenly. "You got a free meal from that morning. You enjoy conning small towns out of their money? 'Oh, poor handicap man!'" Richard mocked.

Neither Dean nor Sam commented. It was true, Dean had been blind and now he was sitting here, two days later staring intently as the cop. It certainly was unexplainable... as was the entire situation really.

"So theft, arson, murder. How are these charges sounding?"

"Murder!" Sam snapped.

"We've had a rash of deaths around here. You two are suspects number one," he said pointing to Sam, "and two," finally pointing at Dean.

"You might want to get your finger out of my face," Dean hissed. He had no time for jerk offs. But if this guy actually thought they were suspects of murder then it was time they left. Get out of dodge quickly.

"We had nothing to do with any murders. We only got here three days ago!" Sam shouted, as he too sat up straighter. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean watched Sam, and, although he knew the cop wouldn't notice anything, beneath Sam's anger exterior Dean knew he was in a lot of pain. His back was probably killing him sitting up. And the shouting certainly wasn't helping anything either. But Sam had a mask up. No weakness in front of the enemy. "Check the motel registry if you have to."

"Oh, don't worry. I intend to."

"I think we're done here," Dr. Summers barked. He'd heard the shouting and his patients did not need any extra aggravation to their throats and lungs. And seeing both his patients sitting up in such a fury, he knew without a doubt that he'd interrupted at the right time.

"In the meantime, don't you two go anywhere," Officer Richard finished.

"Officer, may I speak to you in the hall."

Sam and Dean never once broke eye contact with the man, as he and their doctor left the room. Dean smirked when the officer was the first one forced to look away.

When the doctor and the officer left and their footsteps faded away, Sam gingerly laid back down, this time with a clear expression of pain, when it was only Dean in the room.

"You all right there kiddo?" Dean asked softly.

"How that man ever became a cop I'll never understand," Sam replied with a harsh growl, which Dean knew was not intended for him.

"I mean, the man mocks you in the restaurant, then has the gall to act like it was perfectly normal!"

Dean could only nod his head in agreement, all the while laying back down and turning his head to hide the smile from Sam. It felt nice to have his little brother yelling on his behalf. He was just thankful nobody else could see the cheesy grin gracing his face.

...

"That's what you call being nice?"

"They're suspects Bradley. I can't play nice with them when I need answers."

"When I said their throats were still raw and that they still needed a few days rest and no intense talking, this is exactly what I meant! Dammit Richard!"

"Hey. Come on bro. Calm down."

"Don't you 'bro' me! Ever since Cassie left, you've been a miserable son of a bitch! And you always manage to get yourself in trouble with my patients or other citizens. Then you come running to me for help! Who's the big brother here? Not me! Who's the cop? Not me!" Bradley ranted to his brother. He couldn't believe the nerve of him! Yet, even in the two years after Cassie left his older brother, rather smartly too, Bradley thought, he'd never had the nerve to tell his brother all of this. Something just felt right to say it.

Richard gave his brother a worried look, then a slightly disgusted one for bringing up Cassie. He finally turned on his heel and stalked away. Well, if that's how his brother felt then so be it. He didn't need to sit here and take this.

"For the record Richard," Bradley yelled after his brother's retreating form. "I don't think those two killed anybody. Wrong place, wrong time."

"Doctor intuition?" Richard spat. He spun around again, pressed the elevator call button, stepped in, and let the heavy metal doors finally separate the animosity between Bradley and Richard.

However, even as Dr. Summers stood their silently raging, he managed to whisper, "No. Brother intuition. Those two have something you and I will never have." One tear rolling down his cheek, he stalked away from the elevator, silently wishing things had been different after their parents had been killed. Maybe then, he'd still have a big brother.

**To be continued...**

* * *

**A/N:** I'm leaning toward Sam never finding out about Dean and Harvey at this point for a couple reasons: It really is Dean's secret to keep, as well as Dean's not really the share-and-care type. I also don't want this story to run on. It began as Dean's sudden loss of sight. The rape was only a side drama. I really want to keep it that way.

However, I have also received great 'yes' reasons like strengthening their relationship, it'd make a great chick-flick moment (which is almost a reason I'm saying 'no', because I think Dean's been mushy enough throughout the story!) and it would really help Dean move past the experience (which I can do without Sam finding out. I know how already.)

So, I guess I am still kind of stuck...

Thoughts?

If you haven't yet, vote if Sam should find out about Dean and Harvey in my poll or in a review. I also need a reason for your answer... please?


	10. Chapter 10

_Disclaimer: Everything belongs to their respective owners; Eric Kripke, the CW/WB._

**A/N**: Almost a short filler chapter, but I didn't want the last chapter to be SUPER long. So, I cut it in half... wait, what? Last chapter? Yup, next chapter's the last one. So, will you bear with me until the end?

* * *

_Last Chapter:_

_"Doctor intuition?" Richard spat. He spun around again, pressed the elevator call button, stepped in, and let the heavy metal doors finally separate the animosity between Bradley and Richard._

_However, even as Dr. Summers stood their silently raging, he managed to whisper, "No. Brother intuition. Those two have something you and I will never have." One tear rolling down his cheek, he stalked away from the elevator, silently wishing things had been different after their parents had been killed. Maybe then, he'd still have a big brother._

**Sammy, I Can't See!  
Chapter 10**

"Dean!"

Dean stuttered to a stop, bunching up his bundle into an even smaller ball, slowly turned and nonchalantly putting his bundle behind his back, and saw Dr. Summers walking sternly toward him.

"And what are you doing out of bed?"

"Come on doc! I don't do well lying around all the time."

"Tough. You're still healing."

Dean looked sheepishly down at the ground, all the while looking for an escape. "Doctor, do you have a moment?" And there it was.

A male nurse in yellow was walking toward Dr. Summers from behind. The doctor was forced to turn around to see the nurse coming toward him and eyed what was in his hand. He gave Dean a stern, "We aren't done here" look. Dean nodded. But when the doctor turned around, just as the male nurse was saying something about the paper needing to be signed, Dean silently backed up, turned a corner, and took the long route back to his and Sam's room.

He pushed into the curtains. "I got some. Finding sweatpants in your size wasn't easy though. You better be grateful I didn't let you walk out in that oh-so-flattering gown."

"Thank-you, masterful big brother," Sam mocked, lowering his head in a mock bow.

"Bitch. And just stay still."

"Jerk," and Sam gave his brother a questioning look as he watched Dean scramble back under his covers all the while hiding his bundle of cloths under his pillow.

Sam understood just when Dr. Summers walked into their area with a scowl on his face. He quickly shifted himself back under his own covers.

"Well, I was going to give your brother a verbal bashing for letting you step out of this room," the doctor chastised Dean, giving a stern glare to Sam, all the while walking around Dean, checking his lungs and fixing his pillows, which Dean whined with slight desperation in his voice, that that wasn't necessary. "But seeing as you were smart enough to come back, you get it instead. Do-"

"Look, doc, I get it. I'm healing. Believe me, I can feel it," Dean reassured, emphasizing it by rubbing his chest tenderly with his still-wrapped arm. "Won't happen again," Dean lied smoothly.

"Better not." And when he was satisfied, he left their room. Dean looked after him guiltily. He was a good man. Dean felt horrible lying to him. But they needed to leave. The cop had been forced out of here an hour ago, and they needed to get out before the cop realized Sam hadn't told them which hotel they were staying at and went searching for their names around the small town. There was only four motels in town. It wouldn't take long to find theirs. Then find their stash of guns in the room. He wondered what happened to his car when he'd not-so-gracefully left it in the front when he came screaching into the hospital parking lot. Hopefully, it was some random Joe that moved it. If the cop got to that one, they'd be in trouble.

Once it was quiet outside their room, Dean crawled out of bed and sorted the cloths he'd scavenged from lost and found and one patient's room when he couldn't find sweatpants that fit Sam.

He threw Sam his cloths, a pair of light grey sweatpants, a navy blue, worn zip-up hoodie and white socks. No T-shirt, because of his back, and no boxers, because, really, they didn't look clean to him.

Dean rushed into his own darker grey sweatpants, white shirt and pale red-ish brown zip-up hoodie, already mourning the loss of his solid maroon button up. When he finished, he glanced over at Sam to see, thankfully, he had his sweatpants on. However, his back was giving him trouble as he worked his arm backward and into the second sleeve while trying to avoid as much scraping as possible. Dean smirked lightly, but, without comment, held the jacket away from his brother's back, holding the sleeve open for him. Sam cringed as the fabric brushed his delicate back, parts of which were uncovered already.

"Come on, let's go," almost smacking Sam on the back as encouragement. Stopping himself just in time, Dean helped Sam stand. Dean slipped out of the room briefly to get Sam a pair of crutches, which he returned with promptly, having already retrieved those first and hid them in another room.

Sam growled as the crutches were slightly too small and hunching his shoulder's hurt his whole back. His back felt fine while he was in bed, but now that he was moving around, it burned like a son of a bitch.

The hospital was quite busy at 10:30 in the morning. Their doctor had arrived for his shift three hours ago and was currently making his rounds. The boys only hoped that they didn't run into him, or anyone else they had encountered during their stay upstairs. They made it to the ground floor without incident. Nobody seemed to notice two more patients, even two huffing with ragged breaths and one cringing with every movement. They seemed to fit right in.

A slight distraction allowed them to slip out the front doors and into the parking lot in only their socks. It had rained the previous night. There was a chill in the air and neither boys could suppress a shiver. Their socks were also thoroughly wet soon enough. Dean scanned the lot for his car.

"Mr. Page! Mr. Plant!"

Shit.

Dean turned. Sam glanced over his shoulder. However, seeing who it was that called them had him immediately turning and sneering and they received a full sneer right back.

"I thought I told you two not to leave," Officer Richard Summers growled.

"We don't take orders from son of a bitch jerk offs," Dean retorts with venom.

"Nice come back. I don't know who you two are, or whether you really are retarded," indicating Dean with his head, "but-"

His head snapped backward, not even getting a chance to finish his sentence. He crumpled to the ground with a bleeding, and probably broken nose, while Sam recoiled his fist. Dean smirked proudly as Sam. "An officer of the law Sammy. Didn't know you had it in you."

"You're welcome," Sam growls, a smile flitting across his face in satisfaction. "Come on. Car's this way."

Officer Richard stirred after a few minutes. The punch had certainly been unexpected. Maybe he'd been provoking them, but he rarely got hit when he wore his uniform. The nerve of that kid! He was going to kick his ass. However, when he sat up, growling when he realized he'd fallen into a puddle, there was no sign of either of his suspects. The parking lot was quiet.

Great.

Maybe his brother knew which motel they were in.

...

"Sam, just stop. Let me get it."

Sam scowled at his older brother, but sat down on the bed gratefully. Dean was bustling around cleaning up their clothes, putting their bags in the car and finally wiping their prints. The boys may have been 'dead' for the last year or so. But there was no doubt their prints were still in the system or in some file at least.

Just as Dean was wiping up the bathroom, there was knock at the door. Both boys froze before Dean moved cautiously toward the door. Peeking through the eye hole, Dean sighed and opened the door. "Hey doc."

"You boys sure move fast," he commented, glancing around the already clean room.

"How'd you know where we were?" The doctor stepped into the room. Dean shut the door.

"I went through your wallets when you were first brought in. There was a 'Red Spot Motel' card in yours Dean, with, conveniently enough, Room 12 written on the back. Dean groaned aloud.

"Look, sorry we left doc," Sam said, looking apologetically at Bradley Summers.

"Boys, I don't really want to know what's going on." Dean raised his eyebrows at the doctor. "There were three different credit cards in your wallet, Dean. All with different names on them." Again, Dean groaned. "But." He looked sharply at Dean, then Sam. "Whatever's going on around town, I don't think anyone is really responsible. How can someone be when they're just drownings and car crashes?"

"There was that one shooting." Dr. Summers looked sharply up at Dean. Dean's teeth snapped together, realizing he probably revealed too much.

"And I certainly don't think you guys are doing it. Call it instinct. Call it luck on your part. I don't care."

"What about the fire?" Sam asked softly. Dean sent Sam a "Shut up now!" glare.

"Wrong place, wrong time?" The doctor suggested, looking between the two boys. Each of them nodded. "No one was hurt in the fire." Both Sam and Dean flinched together. Dr. Summers smiled apologetically at Sam, knowing he was still in a great deal of pain. He continued, "And that house wasn't doing anything out there. It wasn't even owned by anybody. So, whatever your reasons for leaving so fast, I don't want to know. I'm just worried about you two."

Dean said, "Doc, we're pretty good at taking care of our wounds. We got everything we need. Anything else, we can get. Don't worry."

The doctor gave the boys a significant look, anguish riddling his features. "I know," he spoke softly.

Sam realized before Dean that the doctor was referring to their old scars. He had wondered whether that would be brought up. He could only guess what the doctor thought of those. Anyone who looked would see lots of them were many years old. Long term abuse? That was most likely what the doctor was thinking. It was the only rational thing to think for a rational man. Sam had no other explanation for that, so he would, unfortunately, let the doctor continue to think that.

"Would you boys just do one thing for me?"

Dean nodded only to allow the doctor to continue, not as acceptance.

"Tell me, how the hell do you do that mind reading thing?" he asked desperately.

Sam guffawed. Dean smiled, both at hearing his brother so happy, and the absurdity of the question. "Sorry doc. Trade secret." Sam plastered his face with a grin identical to his brother's.

The doctor huffed in frustration. "How about this then. Call me when you get settled. Just let me know you two are all right."

Dean's smile dropped. "After this, you'll never see us again."

"Yes, well. Considering I haven't officially discharged you yet, you're still my patients." He gave each a stern gaze.

Dean smiled again and nodded his head. "Thanks for everything doc." He held his hand out for Dr. Summers to shake. He did so. And the doctor went forward to meet Sam's out stretched hand from the bed. "Really. Aren't many doctors I like. So thanks. For everything," muttered Dean.

"Go." Dr. Summers nodded toward the door. Dean helped Sam stand before his brother got his balance. Sam led the way out, followed by Dean. Dr. Summers stood in the doorway of their room and out of the beginning of a light drizzle. Dean got the last bag into the car before making sure Sam was in, climbing in himself and giving Dr. Summers a small nod before starting the car and pulling out of the Red Spot Motel parking lot.

Dr. Summers stared after them, wondering if he did the right thing by letting them go. But his gut was never wrong. He knew that. "No boys. Thank-you," he muttered to the retreating Impala. He smiled, locked their door and stepped into the rain, pulling his cotton trench coat tighter around him yet enjoying the cool drops as he thought about the life his brother and he could have had. "Thanks for showing me brotherhood," he thought to himself.

**...**

It was one day since Sam and Dean skipped town.

"Hey Rick. We checked the whole place. There's nothing left behind. Not even any prints. But I talked to the manager multiple times and he stands by what he said before. The brothers checked in here four days ago, rented the room for five days then left without even getting their money back for the missed nights."

Richard Summers plucked his cigarette from his scowling lips, throwing it onto the ground still burning. He stalked away from the new recruit on his squad. He was going to pay a visit to his dear brother at the hospital.

"They just disappeared on your watch?" Richard growled at his brother's back.

"I guess so." Richard noticed how unconcerned his brother was when he'd been so protective of them earlier.

"And you have no idea about their prints?"

"Like I said before, their hands had been burned as well. There was no way to get prints."

"How convenient," Richard snarled.

All the evidence was against the boys being anything more than con men. And he was so looking forward to getting somewhere on this case and getting the town's worry and blame off himself. But his trail was running cold. As well as ever since the fire at the witch's house, there'd been no more deaths and it was regenerating people's beliefs in the curse of that land. That was the last thing he needed. Yet there were no more leads to follow. The boys hadn't left a trail at all. They'd just vanished. And no one knew anything.

Not a damn thing.

**To be continued...**

* * *

**A/N:** So, I've gotten many great ideas for the last chapter, and I think I've finally made my decision. Which is? you ask. Well, I'll tell you... next chapter! Stay tuned until then! xD


	11. Chapter 11

_Disclaimer: Everything belongs to their respective owners; Eric Kripke, the CW/WB._

**A/N**: Last chapter here. Many of you expressed valid views on where I should lead this and I finally made my choice after much debating!

* * *

_Last Chapter:_

_All the evidence was against the boys being anything more than con men. And he was so looking forward to getting somewhere on this case and getting the town's worry and blame off himself. But his trail was running cold. As well as ever since the fire at the witch's house, there'd been no more deaths and it was regenerating people's beliefs in the curse of that land. That was the last thing he needed. Yet there were no more leads to follow. The boys hadn't left a trail at all. They'd just vanished. And no one knew anything._

_Not a damn thing._

**Sammy, I Can't See!  
Chapter 11**

It was a solid three days drive to Hulett, Wyoming from Willow, Nevada.

The trip wasn't all that note-worthy. They picked up more ointment for Sam's back to reduce scarring as much as possible. His back constantly irritated him. At one point he begged Dean to scratch a newly healed first degree burn section that he couldn't quite reach. Dean chuckled, mocked his brother for looking like a snake the way he kept squirming, then gently rubbed ointment on the patch of skin and worked it until Sam sighed in relief. Both their first degree burns on their legs were almost fully healed. Sam's healing nose wasn't black anymore, but a yellowish. Dean's arm, although itching constantly, was already scabbing. Their lungs were getting better all the time. They worked on small exercises to build their lung strength up again. Dean even deigned to taking Sam on a small walk around their motel parking lot for his ankle.

Each brother was careful however. Dean cared for Sam as gently as he could, though he knew his brother would be fine. He also kept watch over him, not just watching for enemies out to get them, but just staring at Sam. Dean had always had his brother's face memorized. Yet, it was the prospect of never seeing it again that panicked Dean every now and then. He took to memorizing it over and over again, only when Sam wasn't watching of course. It felt great to be able to see the colours, the shadows, the looks and emotions.

Sam watched Dean right back, unbeknownst to the older brother. Sam knew Dean was healing from the trauma of, first, the idea of never seeing again, and then Sam getting hurt and almost dying. Dean didn't show much, and he almost never said anything, but Sam knew. He knew the toll everything had taken on him. He'd also noticed something else... Dean got more and more anxious the closer they got to wherever they were going.

Dean still hadn't told them where they were going. Whenever it was brought up, Dean adamantly refused to answer.

_Flashback_

One day after leaving Willow, Nevada behind.

"So, what were you dreaming about while under the witch's spell?" Sam asked softly.

"Not much."

"Didn't seem like 'not much' from where I was standing."

Dean glanced over at Sam, saw his determination, and replied, "Just same old stuff Sammy. Hell. Losing you."

Sam nodded. He knew he'd heard his own name issued from Dean's lips a couple times while in the throws of a nightmare.

"Who's Harvey?" Sam asked suddenly, not completely oblivious to the sudden flinch and white knuckles from Dean.

"Where'd you get that name?" Dean hissed.

Sam scanned Dean's tense posture. "I- I just heard you say it at the witch's."

Dean swallowed, willing himself to calm down. If Sam was asking who Harvey was then he obviously didn't know anything. "It's no one."

"Doesn't seem like no one," Sam replied carefully. "You seemed pretty scared of him." Dean didn't respond. "Is he a demon?"

Dean considered the question carefully, trying to find an answer that would satisfy Sam's curiosity. "The worst kind," he finally sighed.

Sam squinted his eyes at the answer. Something wasn't quite right in that. However he wasn't entirely sure what. So he let the subject drop.

"So, where are we going?"

"Nowhere."

"So, we're going to Bobby's then?"

"No."

"Dean."

"Sam."

"I guess I'll find out when we get there," Sam sighed in defeat, huffing and turning away from his brother.

Dean smirked briefly at Sam's dramatic display. The smile didn't last long on his face however as he read a sign that said, "Now entering Utah," and he remembered where they were headed.

_End Flashback_

So, tense silence was a predominant feature on the car ride. In the end, Dean barely grunted to anything Sam was asking. They passed a sign saying they were entering Hulett in Wyoming and Dean stopped acknowledging Sam all together.

Sparks kept shooting up Dean's spine. He hadn't been through this place in a long time. Yet he found that even after 13 years, he still didn't like the vibe of the place. He got the heebie-jeebies just stepping into the town. He really didn't want to be here.

But there was something important he needed to do. Under the witch's power, nightmares had tortured Dean. Things that had happened, things that he worries will happen and things twisted to worsen the worst nightmares of his life. The witch had twisted one of Dean's most embarrassing memories and now, even though he knew it had never really happened, it still seemed so real. He felt the touches, the heat, the pain, the emotions. Too real. It sent guilt washing through him with one thought to accompany them: How many others did he actually do this do, after me?

Dean dropped Sam off at a motel, of course not before making sure he was settled. But Dean wasted no time getting his business done. He had today. That was what he was giving himself. No matter what he found, if anything, he was leaving with Sam tomorrow morning.

Sam, of course, had begged Dean to let him come. But Dean couldn't let Sam know. Not yet. Not ever, if he could help it. In the end, Sam concluded it was Dean's pure anxiety that had him backing down so quickly, and letting Dean go off on his own.

Dean drove slowly to Rosemead high school. It's red roof and pinkish walls were still the same. Maybe the parking lot was bigger. But he still located the path leading to the lower courtyard. And he stood in the exact place Harvey had approached him 13 years ago.

"Young man. Can I help you?"

Dean twirled around, probably a bit more quickly than he'd intended.

"Umm, no."

"May I ask what you're doing here?" asked a short, plump, older lady with a 'teacher' face. She smiled cheerfully at him.

Dean looked around for a good answer as to why an older man would be stalking around the grounds of a high school. "I, uh- I went to- school here."

He regretted it as soon as it left his mouth. He wanted no association with this school.

"Really!" she exclaimed. "What year?"

" '95," Dean answered, hoping his frustration wasn't showing on his face. "Wasn't here for very long though."

He turned to looked in the direction of the Physical Education office.

The woman didn't say anything at first. She just studied him, her head tilted to one side, her lips pursed ever so slightly. Squinting her eyes at him, she finally tutted to herself and made up her mind. Slowly, she opened her mouth and said, "That's the year Mr. Moore was here."

Dean blinked owlishly. That's right. That was his name. Harvey Moore. Dean slowly turned to her, his brain stuck on his name, his face, his breath on his neck, the real scene of what happened. He couldn't string a coherent thought together in reply. He just blinked at her, but he wasn't really seeing her. He was stuck in Harvey's office. Stuck replaying the situation over and over again. Flashing between what had really happened and what the witch had made happen, between real and imagined. Real. Imagined.

"Son? Are you all right?"

Dean's throat hurt suddenly, like he'd been running for miles, stitches in his sides, prickles in his lungs.

"He got to you, didn't he?" The woman said almost too softly to hear. Yet, her voice thundered in Dean's muddled brain. And through the pain in his chest, Dean registered that this woman knew. She knew what had happened. He didn't have to tell her. He didn't have to speak it. The real. The imagined. He didn't even realize when he began to nod his head.

The older teacher, greying hair in a tight bun, spectacles on the end of her short nose, soft pink lipstick, patted Dean on the elbow. And he almost lost it right there. It was 13 years ago. Yet, one touch almost sent him over the edge. Yet, as Dean looked into the woman's eyes, like deep oceans, shimmers like ships on a vast sea, he was able to pull himself out of the waves, safely away from the cold and dark.

"Not quite," he managed to correct, his voice cracking. "What happened to him?"

The woman stared up at him, determining whether he needed another buoy to help him float. She finally replied, in a still softer voice, "He was arrested for the rape and murder of a 14-year-old boy that year."

The air caught in Dean's throat. A young boy was killed? And he could have stopped it!

"Forensics determined he had already been dead two years."

And the breathe was released. It meant that Dean wasn't even in town when that boy had been killed. He wasn't responsible for that one. "How many did he hurt?"

"Well, when he was arrested, Mr. Moore admitted to 7 rapes and that one murder." Seven... "He said he hadn't meant to kill the boy. He'd just gotten excited," the woman spat out, before softening her gaze to look at Dean's trembling form.

"How was he caught?" Dean asked in a whisper.

"A story was published in the paper about how he'd told police about one boy who he'd tried to seduce. However, before he had a chance to do it, or even convince the boy not to tell, the boy had run. And ever since then, he'd become increasingly paranoid that the boy had told someone. In the end, I believe, he practically fell on the police's doorstep when he hinted to a neighbour what he'd done."

By the end of the woman's story, Dean's eyes were wide as marbles. His elbow trembled under the woman's grasp. His shoulder's slumped. His knees felt weak. Yet the pain in his chest was receding, and he released a deep sigh.

"That was you, wasn't it?" the lady asked, smiley lightly at him. Not with humour, Dean acknowledged, just in understanding. He gave her a questioning gaze. "You look slightly relieved. As well, earlier, you said, "Not quite," when I asked whether that man had gotten you."

Dean cringed lightly and studied at the woman, noticing the waves crashing in her eyes, the sheer force of her gaze. Dean finally nodded to her question. Yes. That had been him. He was the boy who had escaped. He'd run away. And for 13 years he'd prayed, been terrified, that he'd left others behind to get hurt as he had.

Suddenly, the older woman was the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen. And he wanted to laugh with her, cry with her, hug her, and thank her for all she'd done for him, however unintentionally.

"Thank-you," he whispered, then cleared his throat and repeated, "Thank-you," when he realized the first one made no sound. "Thank-you." She patted his elbow again.

Sheer force of will let Dean look back up at Harvey's office. He'd been the last one. He could deal with that. It was certainly better than the alternative. Dean looked back at the woman. "Thank-you," he whispered again. And after receiving another pat on the elbow, Dean smiled and walked away.

And he truly walked away. The memory, the embarrassment, the guilt, the pain. He left it all behind. He left it in that courtyard, in that office. Stored away. Signalling end-of-day, the school bell rang, returning Dean to the present, and reminding him he was parked in the bus lane and he better run before he was towed. He drove out just as the first bus pulled up. And he released a cheeky grin when the bright, yellow bus honked at him.

...

The woman in the courtyard watched the young man walk away. After that, never once did she mention his story to anyone. There was really no need. The rapist had been caught. Repeating the tale now, especially one that wasn't her own to tell, would only let Harvey's memory live on. And, as she returned to the school, heading for the detention hall where she only hope no one would be there to serve the time – but, of course, that was only wishful thinking – she, too, left Dean's, and Harvey's, memories behind where they belonged.

...

It didn't take Dean long to find the article the woman had mentioned on Harvey. He was only curious about one thing: prison sentence. Scanning, he read 45 years over and over. 45 beautiful years this town would be free of him. The world, truly.

Finally he left the article behind.

On the drive back to Sam, Dean had a thought, about visiting Harvey in jail.

But what would he get out of that? Hadn't he already left it all behind? He'd said good-bye. No. That grave was better left undisturbed. And without a backward glance, Dean drove up to his and Sam's room for the night by 6 o'clock that evening. He thought briefly about leaving right now. There were a couple hours of daylight left.

Dean unlocked the door, stepped into the room and stopped dead. The sight before him had him putting his car keys away and closing and locking the door for the night: Sam sleeping peacefully on his bed, leg propped on a pillow, computer, lid half closed, laying beside him. Dean gently shifted Sam's head into a not-so-painful position. His brother didn't stir.

No. Dean could wait one night. Tomorrow would be soon enough. Of course, it was too early to go to bed. Only 6 o'clock for Pete's sake. So, Dean took a quick shower, being careful with his arm, where it was healing, covered in scabs, and he certainly didn't want it tearing open again. When he trudged back into the room, changed his clothes – still relishing in being able to do that himself after being blind – and fell onto his own bed, he thought maybe he could just lay there for a few minutes while he thought of something to do. And within minutes sleep took him. Maybe 6:15 wasn't too early.

'Sammy?' Dean thought.

'Well, took you long enough. Surprised you didn't fall sooner, you failure.' Sam's voice echoed endlessly in his head, rattling his brain. 'You're worthless.' Dean stopped breathing. 'You can't even keep up with the family business anymore. You can't protect me. You can't even protect yourself. And I'm sure as Hell _not_ going to wait on you.'

'Sammy. What?' Dean's own thoughts echoed.

'Shut up, you pathetic, worthless bastard. You're blind Dean. You'll never see me again. You'll die here. I'm better off without you,' Sam spat.

'Sammy,' Dean thought desperately.

'I'm leaving.'

'No.'

'Dean, listen to my voice. I. Don't. Need. You.'

Dean's breath evaporated in his throat; his heart pounded against his ribs. Sam was finally leaving him. The words pained him. Of course Sam would realize what a pathetic loser he was. There was no way Dean could protect Sam without his sight. He'd never see Sam again. Never.

'Dean. Dean, can you hear me?'

"Son of a- Dean!"

Dean sat bolt upright in bed and stared frantically around the pitch black room.

"Calm down, Dean. It's just a dream. Jeez, you nearly gave me a heart attack."

Dean's eyes finally adjusted to the darkness. It wasn't pitch black after all. It was night time. He wasn't blind. He'd been dreaming. Only dreaming. Sammy was still here. He was worried about Dean. He wasn't leaving. 'Yet...' Dean thought dismally to himself. But he dismissed the thought as he looked at the moon reflecting on Sam's face and his worried gaze.

"I'm okay," Dean finally replied, and turned away.

Sam stared for a few more moments at his brother before finally huffing, saying, "Sure," then turned away himself.

There'd be no more rest for Dean tonight. Dean wondered when he'd ever be able to get some rest in this world. There was always something there to disturb his sleep. Always something to break into his head, recreate his worst nightmares. Then Dean wondered when the last time he had rested was. Not anytime in the last four years, surely.

However, there was one bright spot: Sam's rhythmic breathing from only a few feet away.

'Just leave if you're going to leave,' Dean thought sadly to himself.

A Sam-like voice answered his thought. 'I'll never leave. You can't make me.' The voice spoke in rhythm with Sam's real breathing.

With that and Sam's soft snoring, Dean let himself drift off.

Morning came soon enough. Sam offered to drive, but Dean, incredulous yet furious, shut Sam up and had Sam looking at his still-casted ankle. Should have seen that coming. Dean would never trust him to drive the car with a cast on the right foot.

Bobby's was only a few hours away anyway. They'd be there by 3 o'clock that afternoon.

The drive was uneventful, as usual. It wasn't like real twisters actually showed up on the highway, spitting and whipping cows all over the road, like in the movies...

Sam dropped off to sleep at one point, out of sheer boredom. When he woke up, he questioned Dean about why they'd stopped in Hulett, Wyoming. However, instead of shooting Sam's question down, or getting tense at the very least, Dean merely looked at Sam, smiled softly and went back to driving. The response was so odd, Sam didn't dare ask again.

Arriving at Singer Salvage, Bobby came right out to help the boys with their stuff, bringing it up to their usual room they shared. The only clean spare room in the house. Sam and Dean finally settled around 3:30 in the afternoon, each with a mug of coffee in their hand, sharing contented looks and relaxed postures.

"How was the trip?"

Sam opened his mouth to answer, wasn't sure how, so he shut his mouth again. Dean glanced at their old friend and father figure, grinned and replied with a simple, "Same old." Then, he shifted and exclaimed, "Oh!" Placing his coffee back on the table, Dean pulled out his cellphone and dialled the Nevada number he'd put to memory days ago.

"Hello?"

"Hey doc."

The line was silent for a moment. Then there was a shifting of paper, and Dr. Summers finally asked, "Dean? How are you?"

"Fine. Just paying back the debt. This makes us even by the way."

"How's Sam?"

"He's fine. We're both fine," Dean said in a slightly quieter tone. "Just calling to tell you we're settled."

**The End**

* * *

**A/N:** Well, this is how I always wanted it to end. Many of you said Dean had never been able to get over what Harvey had done to him. That is true, however the only reason for that was because of other kids. He wasn't much interested in himself, just how many others could have gotten hurt. So, because of that, this is how I always imagined it ending, without Sam knowing. I realize many of you still feel like Sam should find out. I received a great idea on that front, where I do an alternate version on this ending and create a whole new story focused solely on what happened to Dean. What do you guys think? Also, was the ending satisfactory, if not completely what you wanted?

Thank-you all so much for following Dean, Sam and I on this wild ride. I never expected such huge support for a story I wrote in a little under three days. I really completely appreciate you all reading it and every single review you deigned to give me! Thank-you, thank-you and thank-you!


End file.
